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- Adrienne Eberhard
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- BOOKS FOR DREAMING
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- Heavy and crisp of page,
- they lie in my lap
- like monuments.
- They assault my heart,
- turn my limbs to liquid:
- my eyes collide with cliff, volcano,
- I am caught in the limbs of trees,
- stumble on tiny lichens,
- drown in the dark eyes of bears,
- I run after the black flap of raven in the woods,
- watch the swift, ghost-step of grey wolves passing,
- or else, the brown sweep of rivers drains on the page,
- washing my body to dirt, to soil,
- my hair floating like the span of a delta,
- or luminous marble rises
- in the shape of temple, statue, pavilion,
- containing me, shaping me
- in cold, fluid forms.
- Streaming across page after page
- and into my fingers
- is the lure of these things.
- Sometimes, there’s the scent of a 4000 year old tree
- shifting in the paper,
- or the hard, fading bark under my palm,
- or small sand grains riffling in the corners of the book,
- scratching at my skin and eyes.
- Here, in my own house on the side of this mountain,
- where violets creep
- and frogs call brokenly,
- I turn the pages of these books
- and my body deserts me,
- changes from solid to liquid, becomes porous; ether.
- I escape like clouds,
- gathering, dispersing,
- in an endless chase after the world.
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