I'm cataloging [insert gasp here] at last this morning after putzing around with a lot of other projects. You'd think I'd learn after yesterday's bizarre day that when we have electricity I should just get to my stacks of work, but nooo.....Anyway, in the midst of kids' series books and sheet music books and books in Spanish for 6-year-olds, I found the book pictured at the left. Flipping through it, a poem called "Yours Truly" caught my eye because of the opening lines. I'll retype the whole thing here:
The undersides of things are ticklish:
palms, bellies, backs of knees,
surfaces scored with nerves,
concave, convex, any place
you lift or turn to touch.
A stone dead but for its lichen
thrives underneath, a mine
of wriggling kin. Too much
sexy stuff for some (exclaiming Oh!
the slam the lid down, screw it tight);
for others--okay, for me--hope:
that any grave might hide delight,
that every shape must have its mate,
the counter-curve to true it up.
So you're shy, yet your secret tongue--
doesn't it?--savors this note's envelope.
surfaces scored with nerves,
concave, convex, any place
you lift or turn to touch.
A stone dead but for its lichen
thrives underneath, a mine
of wriggling kin. Too much
sexy stuff for some (exclaiming Oh!
the slam the lid down, screw it tight);
for others--okay, for me--hope:
that any grave might hide delight,
that every shape must have its mate,
the counter-curve to true it up.
So you're shy, yet your secret tongue--
doesn't it?--savors this note's envelope.
It reminds me, in the best way of poetry, of lots of things, lots of people, lots of 'stuff.'
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