Of Palimpsests

 

Of Palimpsests

(considering Wyeth's "Winter")

Of course I judge a book

by its cover of course I do

by its weight of paper

or skin or rag picked linen

I'm telling you its good news

to know this: it takes

three hundred lambs

to make one Guttenberg

Bible.  I'm saying lambs--I mean

sheep but I want you to

know the word is worth

what's been given up

as flesh to bear it.  Tell me--

when you touch the daily

news and let it give you your quick

open-port fix and then let it

lie: compost: hearth: cat-

litter lining, it's not the same

as taking into your mouth 

the words you're touching 

like you want

a lover to

touch you:

hover

above the spine and thumb-run

it top to coccyx and spread

broad as split birds rendering

their song when you open

their cage of bones

and, hammer and felt, tune

each pore to sing

the good news to celebrate

the talent it takes to make

every listener rise up 

whites of eyes alive 

and shudder long long long 

beyond the song's obvious

remorse.  Of course.  Of course

I judge a book

by its cover, lover.  And too

her paper or otherwise

made pages: pulp of once mulberry

(and oh, those silk worms 

have their own spin on this

metaphor) or once pulp

of Sherwood, or relic shroud

of Saints, or, and dear this will

cost you: lambs, secretly 

undressed and caressed, care-

                                            ssed

so tenderly the raw is

what's rubbed down rubbed clean so

the only thing it can bear

the only thing it can bare

the only thing it can bair

is the word...