Hit with a ray of sunshine that scorches the edge of his book, he jots down quickly, “Pages layered, pages turned, folded, rolled, never ripped, and what is protected—what is kept—is all the words, none discarded, piled up, tumbled together, pushed to face one another at the closest of ranges and even to touch in places they had not expected, rubbing, frictional, producing a heat not quite enough to melt, a warmth that walks to the to the border of comfort and discomfort, a bake that blooms into redolence,” lyrics for a song he’ll always be singing even as he knows that no one can ever really sing it.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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