Pages

I slip between the pages

flirting with each word

my mind wanders away,

and I train my eyes on the verbs

I pick up the same books each time

the ones we dreamed over

you and I

Joyce, Hemingway, Donne, Fitzgerald

to name a few,

I can’t even get through Foster-Wallace

without thinking of you

so I push it towards the back,

and try to get along.

I suppose I’ll just keep rereading

these tired songs