The Book of the Innocent
This is an innocent book – unused and unread,
An innocent with three hundred milk-white pages,
and no illustrations.
The pages are still dusty with a white powder from the manufacturer.
The pages taste sweet – like milk awaiting the
spike of the pen,
the dirtying ink,
and the prying hairs of the brush,
all seeking to invade the
intricate spaces of the book’s virginity.
The binding is tense – sewn up tight, awaiting a little bending and breaking.
The pages lay flat and crisp
the muscles of the pages sleek.
No unnecessary flesh
has been encouraged to run to excess by random
The moistened thumb of the
expectant reader has not yet marked the
soft tissues of this lean clean smiling volume.
and break me open,