The easy thing would be
to hate you: the smear
of your dull pencil is enough
to sigh my breathing.
You printed your name,
careful and proud, believing
you'd want it forever. I know
this book is brittle
from an avalanche of tissues. I know
you wanted blackberries
but planted only thorns.
These pages are stretched, bowed and tired,
this spine is nearly surrendered.
The hard part--and this
you even know--is arriving
at the endpapers, where (you
know) I will forgive you.
photograph by Signora Oriente
