Man Caught Reading  

He sits there turning pages with his callous-tipped fingers
Knuckles raw, knuckles cracked and wearing old blood
Turning over scripts
Pale paper trembling under his intent
Under his eyes penetrating between lines
How naked words are.
His rough impressions traipsing over the smooth, smooth surface
Sensing depth
Searching for the underlay
An ocean pulsing its ebb and flow.
Currents tread deeper here than mirrors can reflect.

His course lips shaping the siren, like nearly still feathers
Lost behind city streets where the moon won’t go.
Is this how he touches her? In whispers?
Last night lingering on his breath and gentle?
Smudging her pages with his palm
His smallest finger alighting at the base of her spine
And she cures him, his haven
Stealing away unsightly memories and thoughts
Holding these onto her ivory leaf
His prints embedded there
She knows no other,
But from him holds the world, and by him lays open to it
Until they close upon each other.
His mistress given back to her holding place
As he, observing his hands,
Re-enters the world.

© 2007 Lisa