I have six hours, eight minutes, one hello
to go on, but what I know
is, of everyone, I want
to carry this book to you.
On the third page, I want
to say “Read,” to point out the dedication,
cry that it starts as well as the last,
run my finger down the first
three paragraphs, which bound from
curiosity to terror to relief, like an abandoned page
caught in the draft of a passing car.
You have unlocked the library,
drawn the curtains, pointed to the dust
we need to clear. My theory: The two of us
like ink and paper could be better together
to write this story, though I fly
from terror to relief as I wonder,
is what you want to read,
then hope that it isn’t.
My vocabulary’s gone, left
silent too long,
unsounded yawps absent, known
only by the susurrus of a pulse in my ears
after running for the train.