THE BOOK  

                            
A man closed his curtain to the light.
Under the small sun of his room
he opened a book, and vanished.
Beyond the curtain the whole density of day
pressed against the glass as if drawn
to the vacuum that his mind was making.

A man opened his thought to the night.
Reflections of his opened curtains
were bookends to the high-rise blocks
that rose between his hands. The pale grey
of their pages, lit by windows of words,
told, across his face, a new story each night.


* Graham High is a poet, haijin and sculptor. His website is at www.grahamhigh.info