The boat capsizes and the army advances the angels sing and
the hero reigns supreme. Within my hands such things are possible, they
feel the drumbeat and in their eagerness, my fingers turn. Page after page
they delight not in the sense of touch, but the texture of words.
Guided by divine reality in the interest of escape. Not the ordinary
day-to-day. Willed forward by the dull adventure and the remarkable nothing.
In my fingers there travel secrets, stories, lies and joys. If and when a stall
then the labor of it is quickly borne again to keep on and on and then.
When the pages go, my fingers dance across the words in anticipation of
the next-ness. Though my eyes may be weary, my fingers dance. They hold the place
of entering and exiting. They are greedy in their seeking. Alas when I can no
longer, they reach in reticence to bookmark. They are still awake and wanting.
photo by Barbara Paulsen at tandemechoes.com.