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