every time a book seems attractive
beware the reader who clutches the meaning
between two shelved intentions…
we sat many times by that window
all of us did, even the dreaming nun…
we all embraced his arguments
unfinished and warmly worrisome as they were:
perverse excursions gracefully tempting
the dysfunctional trumpets in our hearts
to spit on love, trample on beauty
erase the truth… we did it all… we knew him
from others who knew well those who
knew about him from the best storytellers
that were… it was the only place where you
could find the same book on every shelf
each opening by itself or pushed by eager hands
to a different page each meaning the same
yet becoming a chasm in itself…
I knew my way, as others did
like a hurricane through a field of dust
I knew
and I believed…
when the window opened
the sun drenched our truth
stained our balance and
made us love each other forever.
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