It always starts this way: a poem
buried deep in the pages of a book
by an unknown hand. Then, love.
Love of books, love of poems, love of the unknown.
Everything begins in this way. Everything ends
in an accident we blame on God.
But poetry won’t save us from the end.
One day the pages of the book
will stick together, and to pry them apart
we’ll need a lifetime of nimble fingers.
By then it will already be too late.
Marc Alan Di Martino
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