Vol 8, Num 9 :: 2009.04.24 — 2009.05.08
I lived in the 1950s and earlier.
Smelling its dust, feeling its yellow
leaves in my hands, and fighting
its silverfish when they leapt out.
Sometimes the past attacks.
You could call it unsettling
but I call it good to see so many books,
wonder why we bother to save them,
good, when time gives perspective—
here is a first edition C. S. Lewis,
here is a waste of tree pulp.
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