By Faye Branum
I buy a book
At a grocery store;
A collection of short stories.
The author is a serious writer
Seriously dead now
Countless years.
I don’t pick up the top copy.
It might have something
To do with germs,
But more so
The crisp dust jacket of
Fresh book.
The crack of spine
Pushed open
For the first introductory
Gawk.
On the opening page,
At the beginning of each story
Lined with a quote
There’s a mysterious substance.
I think of bits of book—
News from the factory,
A dusting of paper
Uniformly the same color
In sundry singular shapes;
A confetti of communion wafers.
Has someone eaten
A sweet of fine sugary flakes
Food-like
In a biblical sense?
Must be manna,
Ancient substance
Of wandering Israelites
Wilderness rovers
Staying alive
On white caky stuff
Now stuck to page,
Between connecting sheets,
Not easily brushed aside or
Effortlessly blown off.
I cover myself
In the dandruff
