Treasure Island

Brian Wake

(Liverpool)

Books


A good, Cain sighs, book, counting the steps, four, five, then resting,
six, for a moment on the seventh in his cell, is quite, good morning sir,
the purest essence of the human soul.

I’m best inside, he says, best locked away. I like to read for days on end,
the dark of Dostoyevsky with a torch, unravelling the twists of Joyce,
unbraiding Kafka knot by knot, strike Balzac like a match against the wall.

Cain stacks his books, like stairs, and climbs them to the grille. Eight, nine,
he breathes, and rests again at ten. I get, from here, a whiff of what goes on
outside, a glimmering sense of now, a diminishing sound of then.

Submitted: Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, June 12, 2013

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Poem of the Day

poet Henry David Thoreau

My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read,
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
...... Read complete »

   
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