All my real life is in books

a poem by Jill Bronfman

All my real life is in books

Books where I turn the pages

Not with my hands

Books where I read the words

Not with my eyes

I print them using the moveable type

Embedded in our synapses

No book ever concludes properly

The words just stop being visible

Mid-way through the last page

Gulping their last breaths of air

There are characters whose words cease

To appear on the page

But still live

There are houses built inside the book

That still stand

There are villages containing paths

And forests of linked live trees

And then

There is the beauty of the half-page blank

I round the hard edge of the binding

Tuck the carcass under my arm

And begin the resurrection

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