Pressing me…pressing, lifting a little:

the desire to write a letter put off

another day.  A weight to the open book

I want to read, the thick book the library will want back.  Do I also put that off?

Perhaps there is another life.  Beyond

this pleasure, there is an obligation;

the static book, the wise book waiting with a dynamism dating my past life.  The weight is contrasted for the sake of argument with the airy.

Nothing can be said in the letter.  Why

do I have to take this personally?  When was I ever man of letters only to press and lift a weight, not dance in depth?

                                                  ~ David Francis

                                                      USA