As if the puzzle of a book
could be solved without reading,

as if you could pick it up
and know the contents,

as if you could lift it
from the place where it was tossed

and casually leaf through
and gather its gist like a cloud

that passed overhead and everyone else
pointed and stared and said it looked like

a horse or a ship or some old head
of some old woman; as if

the horse neighed and bucked after that
or the ship heaved itself up over

an unseen wave or the old woman
grew long hair and became more lovely

to you; as if any of the changes mattered
more than that and you tossed the book aside

as if the puzzle inside did not matter, not at all,
as if clouds were just foam and mist after all

and clouds of foam and mist did not matter
and any book they resembled did not matter; as if

you had important things to do, more valuable
than transforming the clouds above, more crucial

than sticking your mind to a cloud and making it
matter, even for a second longer than a book.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
onward,
T