by Thom Douglas Carlisle
Novels, novellas, writers of documents and manuscripts,
Bred of grace and order,
What makes a ‘Fellow-of-Letters’ construct for the mind that which the eye
Can never see?
New passive resident in moments of ancient breathing, held down, bound tightly
In this ethereal, far dimension,
Forged in the common-ceremony of ‘Feather and Parchment’,
My nimble fingers probe each new unfolding leaf.
And with more than subtle indifference I do now advance
Myself In the Far Echos and the Long Art.