#118

Comments again. La reset. Hey mister: here is the pattern of your prose. In the park, nimble, circular. Or Seventeenth and Lombard, where the trees dress in jewelry. Your tenor. You are loved. The doors of the Astral Plane in summer.

So when I think of goodness, light, it's you upon a jet, head shorn and a book at rest upon your thighs. Inscribed. Or it's Stephen meets you on the steet, a boy. At St. Paul's, admidst the weathered stones. A sign: "Welcome to all." A colloquy. A register. Your pockets full of nyckels ring. And I, the evening scribe, adore.

And tense? And address? The books I bought at Big Jar: a biography of Joyce's father, a biography of Yeates, and She Alone of All Her Sex. It evens, this scriptorium. The commonplace at night. The artist's fingers over keys in transit. Honey from the flowers' design. Rain. And your packing for the flight. Square says at the fountain (Day 6): "There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. That is all." But my question, Stephen's too. In the light of the lamp, in the light of the sun, in the light of the moon, Do you read?