Reading Dreams
Philip Harvey
Books that tried to run away.
I find them in the garden
Under the lemon verbena,
They didn’t get far.
Books that went into outer
space,
Worked all the controls,
Played golf on the moon,
even.
They vanish in my hand off
screen.
Books that update each half hour,
Never grow old
Or have to rest following
exercise:
They are rarely consulted.
Books we lost in the packing
Or somebody took for the
weekend.
I saw one the other day in a
gallery –
One million dollars.
Books waiting with their
dreams
To take over the world,
Sitting up in bed all
Saturday morning,
Their Renaissances renewed.
Books it takes a hundred men
to open,
In unknown languages ruly
with accents;
Contain the Complete
Explanation
And bibliographies like
galaxies.
Books that started wars.
It hardly seems possible,
Their delicate letters pressed
into paper,
That they are to blame.
Books that are fog before
sunrise.
All those dreams under the
rooftops,
Like this one
Electric with human activity.
Books resting with a good
whiskey,
Nursing their wounds,
That were only ever an
argument
With other books, sipping
single malts.
Books known for their covers,
Dust-jackets to illuminate
time-space.
They beckon us back into
their charmed regions.
I reach for one now.
Books, whole books the poet
sang
About crossing America the
Illustrious
And the wonders she saw
there, bells and all,
Before she woke up.
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