I carry an anthology in today’s everything bag.
I pull it out while waiting for the next thing:
the nurse to call me in,
the bus to come,
the sky to fall.
Reading it exponentiates shared stories,
raising internal voices, outing me into
the enshrined clouds.
I find myself glancing from page
to people, and back again.
I think how crowds
oblige me to gawk, wonder
what each person’s story is.
Absorbing each bark-sacrificed
to-be-told tale, bound together.
Tendrils remain pulling, calling
me to wander; to whom in the crowd
does this one (or that) belong?
We could each as easily be
the story-less face
in the crowd,
as the face-less story
on the page.
Such wrenching compassion grows from
the simple carrying of a poetic storybook
made from stolen bits of pulp. Remains
of a sapling’s elders, whose tears now dampen
the forest’s floor.
The well-seasoned writers’ gifts:
the inked feather in flight,
soaring from our condensations,
rooting us back to The unsoiled Home.