It was that time when I could sit by a window and read books. Naturally, I grew fat, and the books heavy. Blooming out from behind in tight knickers, I cruised between library and window chair, airily like a yacht. On the street I heard cursing by foreign kids not in found books. Right through me the kids shouted. I could have been air, as I crossed their games, hurt at being invisible. In the library, the books smelled of leather and paper dust. I would pull back my head out of the press made by the leaves and thought the smell not unpleasant but close, binding me in. I needed air. Out in the street, one arm hooked around a pile of books, I walked, feeling the crippled position of my arm. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MEASURE OF THE YEAR by JAMES GALVIN UNTITLED, 1968; FOR MARK ROTHKO by JAMES GALVIN THE BUTCHER SHOP by DAVID IGNATOW QUEST by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON STREET CRIES: 6. TO RICHARD WAGNER by SIDNEY LANIER FLUTE-PRIEST SONG FOR RAIN; CEREMONIAL AT THE SUN SPRING by AMY LOWELL THE CANDLE by KATHERINE MANSFIELD TO HELEN KELLER - HUMANITARIAN, SOCIAL DEMOCRAT, GREAT SOUL by EDWIN MARKHAM |