Doors opening, gardens revealed, and then dark carriages appear, another neighbor gone. The books are a throng, waiting. But waiting for what? The next death; birth; sad marriage; war. Volumes sit like satisfied men in a carriage. In a different light they resemble sad playthings from childhood.
When I finger them I say, “I could call you. I’m standing in blue weeds and drifting clouds and I could call.” And what might you say–Eluard, Transtromer, Hannah Arendt, Dear Langston Hughes, would you console me while I’m talking from my place in the walking wind? Everyone puts her or his words in vaults of oakum. Whispering and touching are up to the readers.
This book case must hold sadnesses and a few joys. It says to itself, “it’s still beautiful to feel the heart throbbing.”