—— How I admire

the fiction novel readers,

admire them as I imagine them

in the ritual of preparation,

opening covers as if turning

a sleeping child to lay on its back.

look, as they slowly run

the palms of their hands across

the interior spine as if not to disturb.

The palms linger. The wine

is poured — dark and red,

always exhaling, resting on the tabletops

in front of the couches.

——How I admire

the fiction novel readers,

for the plane of oneness they’ve come to,

for how they seem to have forgotten
the weight of the book.

—— From the gallery at the green of the course.