1. A book

I’m moved, but in ways I don’t recognize
I laugh, and don’t remember laughing, then.
A book transforms with time.
Or, is it life and the record of my own?
Lives I’ve carried inside of me
unleashed, born,
unfurl and unfold.
Some still inside,
others spilling out of me
land onto pages
one, after another. Lives-
mine, and those imagined
now lie and await
tangled like tired lovers
redolent in the stillness
of longing turned to peace
and the promise
of new mornings to come.

on top of each other
like stacked drawings on vellum sheets