We are books quartered into
flippant rants, didactic passages,
muddled poems, improbable clarity
that sears the pages red and black
and orange – it is hard to point out
at any given moment, where we’re
stationed at. We grew up with books,
reading more than writing yet
speaking more than listening.
We became older with struggles
of arranging books into shelves
offantasy, fiction, reality,
de-shelved and re-shelved into
loved and not-so-loved, dissolved
and sorted between those that
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