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Collections, by Richard Curtner
The Reader
by Michael Escoubas
Time
did not
exist for
this intrepid
boy, as he sat, and
as he read of warblers
warbling their songs in jungles.
He was himself the imprint of
the words he was reading, so immersed
by their magic, bathed in sunlight and words,
and the lustrous inundations flooding
his soul. He lost himself in moods of
falling snow, how he felt when rain
clack, clacked on his windowpane.
He did not notice his
knees bent in acute
angles. This place
now home, if
home there
be.
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