As usual
and almost daily as bread
books weigh in,
hundreds of thousands millions
of characters
and silences.
If not from the shop
they slip or squeeze
through the sprung flap
drop and slide on their bottoms
across the honeyed tiles.
Some are involved in a small ceremony
some are blessings banes or bores
but each one uncommon
and singular evidence
even the most trifling.
Matter of the spirit,
surroundings, stomach,
home-grown and far-flung:
after the first quick inspection
– font, weight of paper,
self-effacing stitching
or odourless glue,
how the leaves rustle,
the untold ways books mean –
we set them all aside.
In wonky piles
each waits her turn
some rising
some sinking
as seasons pass
destined always to lie low.
in her soapy cellophane.
Ah! Short or long her time
is bound to come:
After some grievous loss,
or locked in loneliness,
we’ll unwrap her promises
– this charm waiting to console
even to heal us,
the secret of laughter.