The dog ears, with their corners turned down
we tell over and over – love stories, horror stories,
old jokes and limericks,
edges worn smooth with the turning.
Unlike those sections which someone
tried to tear out, to shred, to burn;
they are crispy and crumpled,
Cloth-bound, elegant or cool leather-jacketed,
all the same, their paper cuts draw blood.
Some go nearly naked,
writing their narrative on paper-white.
A slender volume yields a perfect poem.
An uncut edition holds promise yet to be divined.
Walking the street, you see one whose spine is cracked
and broken, shedding pages as she goes.