list

i scrolled through the entire list (reminding myself, just now, of the statement that reading required binding and turning, the leafing through--the opposition to the stretch of parchment, the drawing scroll of paolo soleri, the infinite jest, atop the box, wheeling through the writing, pulling the parchment from the ground and circulating its contents to meet the street once more).  i realized that we had met in some middle, his words and our correspondence of time.  in my own finding of empty envelopes and the dial tone, his knowing less than i had expected (i still remember well, the day that i did not know him). 
he wanted things more, is level, is humble.  he is human when i suspected all at once that he was the other side of me, the wanting out, the laying below, the hiding.  some of this is true.

octogenarian

i read cat's cradle first in florence, found coins and the third language of those four months. we passed it around, further creasing the blue and silver binding. he brought a hardcover narcissus and goldmund to mexico, i sat beside him, not speaking. at the end of the flight, he showed me the edge, golden letters, the finest lines, deepset in the off-gray, royal blue cover.

this was passed too, given away, returned.