Dust Jacket
written by: L. Ward Abel
The sound a book makes—
not when dropped or thrown
but in its resting position—
may seem
slight but
I hear many of them breathe
from my shelves as sheer as any
angels’ landing with drop-offs to
almost beyond seeing.
Small light shows
a spine or
bolded titles
in recesses more walked than
read, organized in silent groups
by last names or topic or width or
weight,
the retellings,
the remembered maps.
In this quiet cold house
old clocks chime from
stored away boxes
still tolling
about some other time
as if they
are the books. But
a codex of worn paragraphs
flexes, sways
like icy bushes housing birds
that ride, hold on
perched here in deep stacks,
layers of the living, piled
remains still extant, hair and teeth
and bones and dust jackets
long frozen—they all awaken
in the small light of
my
notice.
- Dust Jacket - February 12, 2026
- Pavement of Glades – To Octavio Paz - February 19, 2019
