Strangers came into the apartment
walked right to the bookshelf
to spill beer on your book.
Your book on a hook dangling off the roof
attracted a white horse to the door.
Your book emitted physical waves
into the air, drying my hair.
You climbed a tree to write
your book where you wouldn't be seen.
There was no tree there
until you made it.
The shimmering leaves seemed to be powered by light.
The tree shuffled this light onto strings.
The strings hung from the air.
The printers sewed your book together with them.
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Comments about this poem (Your Book by Matthew Rohrer )
(12 May 1812 – 29 January 1888)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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(12 May 1828 – 9 April 1882)
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