Bookmark (I.P)

"...putting my hand
down, groping with bleeding
fingers for truths too
frightening to be bought up"

R.S.Thomas

I don't remember when I saw it last,
where to look, the albums?
No, I woudn't have put you there,
with the happy, glossy memories.

Moving condenses, contracts life
into something smaller, you learn to let go
of books, letters, old christmas cards, things outgrown.

Some books survived, heavy names,
Tolstoy, Harper lee, Burgess.
My eyes are drawn to the pencil thin spines
of cherished poetry. A child in a sweet shop
trying to imagine the taste, the texture,
the feel in my mouth, before parting with my hot penny.

Each volume is slender, as if too much of one thing
would make you sick.
R.S Thomas, he suits the rain
and the bare afternoon, the blank window.

It falls open somewhere near the middle, and I catch you
in both hands, then I remember, trying to decide
what to keep and what to leave, and without looking,
slipping you in and weighing you down
with Orwell, Laclos and McCarthy.