And so we dream the Impossible Book:
The Book which contains our finest expression;
The Book which comprises all of the others we’ve read;
The Book that preserves the endangered pulse of all paper;
The Book meant to show that the pre-digital age is not dead.
It is the book which depicts all of our separate volumes;
The Book for whose preface our cultural heroes elect;
The Book that transports the minds and hearts of the reader;
The Book which exposes and leaves us all circumspect.
It is the book of my life. The book of my Father and Mother;
The Book in whose binding the suffering spine now collects.
This Book is my heart and teaches the girl how to love me;
It is the book from whose paper I smooth her musical thighs
And full breasts. This is the book that explains the book
With the mystery in it. It is the book that lifts poems
Above over five hundred sheets heft. This is the book
That first feeds then rests in the pocket;
This is the Book that remembers everyone who has left.
It is the Book of the Night, surrendering all before morning,
This is the book that dares darkness to masturbate then reflect.
Picture Nick Victor