An Old Book Of Poems

Sometimes, an old book of poems 
will fall open to the same pages 
in our hands, time and again, 
perhaps to where another’s 
thoughts lingered.

Or possibly it’s just the end of a 
printed signature — the spine slightly 
broken there — the same passages, 
repeated, taking on a life of their 
own, insubstantial in the moment, 
bewildering in retrospect.

A single golf clap? Or a long standing ovation?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.