No One Reads The Novels - Poem by Braden Coucher
No one reads the novels
In the library. They rest introverted, spines stiff
As streetlamps in Alaska. Their words congealed too,
Once slightly risen off hot pressed pages,
Now pushed into one another,
Pine needles on winter paths.
The novels lean as streetlamps,
Grounded in midday snow
And always to the left.
I wonder why always to the left.
Their names obsolete, snowflakes mixed
With each other.
But snowflakes are all different, each
An intricate blossom of almost life.
I want to read them all, to open
And whisk over every page,
As a hand up a Labrador’s bristly back to its head.
I want every story and voice
Opened as an old man’s mouth,
Upon a daughter’s unexpected visit.
I want to catch snowflakes,
Relish in each bewilderment before melting,
These books knocked on the floor and stumbled
Over, exposed as naked children.
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