The book is bound.
The spine is riveted with glue.
The glue is not marrow, or flour,
but the calcium of grief.
At first, the spine begins to fray –
persecuted by well-read tears.
Now is the time of semper:
The long atom between day
and night when lovers pronounce kiss.
Then the book unbinds as love
unbuttons its petal stomacher.
At last, the Fall of the scattered page.
Soon there is only Fingal,
lost in his brief library
as the day comes to incarnadine.
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