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The Reader

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Hello.
Look up at the sky.
I stand in another world-
Not reality, not a dream.
We can float on stars.
So surreal,
the feelings I often get.
I live in an old library
I’m an explorer of books.
I clutch my fifty-three ivory spectacles, my velvet top hat, and my vintage camera (kept on my grey coffee table) from an estate sale.
I get so excited.
At sunrise, I pretend I’m a fairy, married to an elf.
I live with goblins and butterflies and flowers and birds.
And I’m a beautiful nun, with an elegant head, finely boned- with a crucifix and a rosary.
I reach for Stykkishólmur and Ybor City and Shillington.
I pit and coarsely chop the olives and garnish with pecans and punch, coffee and cream.
Everything.
Magic.
How much I love doing this.
My life’s the best here, with books.
This is the place.
I purposefully linger in the lit doorway, the end of a honeyed day.
The sweet smell of age in the old library
Like a faded perfume.
Not dark and dreary,
But paradise.



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HorseLover said...
Oct. 11, 2011 at 6:20 am:
Great job with this poem!! I really felt like I was the person reading all these things.
 
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