The tiny black spider who comes from nowhere
To use your book as a ledge and the slowly shifting pages
As a series of caverns--she is
A word grown legs, crawling from one sentence to another
Before becoming fixed, again;
As if you were trying to keep the words in the book, the ink
Tentative against your fingers
But free.
Read her as she slips away, anchored to the story
As you have been
In the sunlight, in the breeze,
And the paper.
Like the spider, the words must be freed. Love this poem Chrissa!
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