Old, wise books left the halls of libraries
for bayous. Other books from museums
wandered playgrounds in a child's hands.
Layla seemed to him the best of books,
one that has a depth of light to it,
one in which you hear the huffs and sighs
of people really loving. Once a tome
of leather-bound philosophy found me
in Lafayette yet with Meister Eckhart
pondering a broad hermeneutic.
Majnun in his madness sung a language
that consumed himself, yet his words wandered,
like epicyclic planets―swift abjads―
into my hands, these brief foreign pages.
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