I had given myself to books
till you arrivedto tell me
that a person might be book-like,
holding hands firm between covers,
at the rim of my darkness
standing staunch guard.
Lowered into your river basin,
my aridity is provisionally forgotten
as page after page opens into promise.
Line by line in me, an old cobwebbed attic
is lighted now, some mothballed dream
recalled, a bashful desire unveiled.
You urge me to cull quotations,
take notes, bookmark our conversation
for another rainy day. I mostly keep you
open, wander between sentences, an Ibn Battuta
steadily drawn east. On your margins I mind-scribble
bold fantasies, this rihla as much mine as yours.
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