I fell for your strange lace
of unstressed X’s, the beautiful
a bb a cc patterns, mysterious codes
I didn’t grasp, but liked the look of.
The primitive language of rhythm:
bada bada da bum dada.
I wish you were my honeybun,
a favorite example
of pronominal elision
resting between ink stars.
My coffee stains, wine rings,
mark but don’t mar.
We understood each other:
You put up with my poor memory,
I tolerated a bit of arrogance.
My highlights faded
into your browning pages,
your paper soft
as a powdered cheek.
A slender book, easy
to hold in one hand
while conducting the air—
but I feared my aging,
and finally threw you away,
excited to welcome the new
revised edition—a black Cadillac,
expanded and updated,
twice as fat.
This new binding resists
and when I look up Petrarchan,
my gaze doesn’t wander
the way I once strayed
over your curious pages.
I don’t use this one much.
Every time I open it,
I am a stranger.