Vibraphone
I like the cover of this book
the solid way it sits in my hands
sturdy binding holding it together
insides packaged neatly so as not to spill
their messy contents
onto the floor of my bedroom
incoherent scribbles splattering the wallpaper,
evidence of some grisly scene.
The many unstained pages of this book
brush against my hands
smooth and delicate within their binding,
which, when you tap it
produces a short-lived knock
not unlike the occurrence of one’s heart
contracting and expanding,
only noticeable when its determined beats
thud against one’s ribcage
so that its vibrations travel along bone
encased in fragile binding,
blood pressing into the back of one’s fingernails
a sound more felt than heard.
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