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INSIDE THE BOOK

For my daughter: these images,

these trenches of script. She keeps

reaching to pull them

from the page, as if the book

were an opened cabinet;

every time, the page

blocks her hand. They’re right

there—those pictures

vivid as stained glass,

those tiny, inscrutable knots.

They hang in that space

where a world was built

in fits and erasures—she wants

to lift that world

into her own.

Meanwhile, this world

floods her thoughts,

her voice; it fills

the windows, the streets

she moves through;

it reaches into her

as the air reaches into her lungs.

Then, before we know it,

here she is with us

inside the book.