The Books: Volumes In The Courtyard, Ekphrasis Project Jeanne Simonoff
If it weren’t for the sand, and the winds which leveled it,
I would be able to see into the table of tides,
of contents, marble blanched by summer sand or frozen in last week’s snow.
I could unearth you, my hidden agenda.
What would I want you to say to me:
Picture my inner slate, check it out.
You have only to find in the long run that my fears have also been blanched.
It is the story of Paris, 1940. It took it’s bereft, it was their father, their mother,
their grandparents caught. All gathered up at once.
If I could open the table further, I would get inside to the ransom of them all.
The corners constantly trying to separate, to protect, to betray or just plain disappear
into the history written to death with its seminal subject.
How a book is judged by its cover and this cover is also a blank page.
I discover more often than not, no one is going to give away a myriad of words and images.
They float up into air.
I try to lasso a few before they, as I,
disappear into the ether.
The Books, by David Rudolph