Bindings

Who is the other bookend,
the author, the poet being one,
speaking to himself
in the silence
from unintended anonymity,
to imagined posterity
feigning confidence?

Reading might be eavesdropping,
pausing, stopping, bending
toward the transcribed voice,
not knowing till the end
if he’s being addressed
by a stranger waiting
to be friend,
or if he’s accidental,
trespassing privacy.

If the bookends hold between them
a single book
and that book a single reader
they’ve all served their purpose.
It could then be
no further books need be written
or read
if all’s been said and written,
shared and read
and understood.