This comes from too-slovenly dusting of too-tightly packed bookshelves….
A weekly dust
and not even that with any thought.
A cursory unthinking swipe
while they shout,
“Look at me, take me,
peel me away from these too-close neighbours
whom I didn’t choose.
Hold me in your hands and
let my pages shiver again like swan’s feathers stretched”.
Put down the duster and the polish and
follow their lines.
The celadon spines of the Penguins.
The patterned Fabers.
The monochromed Carcanets.
Look closely at covers cracked like old paint on a window frame
sunburned, windburned, aged.
Books read on Intercity trains and Manchester buses and
London tubes while
landscapes cracked, barely noticed:
fields and moors and back-to-backs and streaks of advertisements and soot.
Remember when you read me lying on your belly on the grass
knees bent, feet warming in the sun?
Remember my words?
Remember how I made you think?”
Too much din.
We are made of the things we have forgotten.