paper, we tear apart ,
and one whole book become a piece
of parched blank parchment,
thirsting for her fountain
ink pool
Yet, parched,
crackling with a delicate crispness
fragile sheets ,
white
as old bones,
sway with the air
down
to the dirt
or wooden floor,
freckled age spots.
err once,
when it not time
as if a marble
atop a vessel
cruising mid-ocean
once sunk
forever lost...
