A poem inspired by this amazing tumblr of people reading on the subway.
underground books
.
hands more varied in colour than
the pages they turn pause,
spread into lectern-cradles for words
 .
as open-edged as breath, whose authors span
cities, countries, centuries more
varied than the scintillant plumage of birds;
 .
each face unguarded, caught engrossed
in worlds-that-are-worlds-that-are-not (that are nonetheless
temporarily more real than
 .
the darkened tunnels their carriage crossed
before this; may each voyage bless
them – eye, heart, ear & tongue) – and
 .
when they land, bookblinked & isolate
on concrete sands,
let them recede gently, like seafoam;
 .
let them be slow to close the cover; let them be late
for work; let ink & stories stain our hands
like henna, honey, loam.
shattersnipe: malcontent & rainbows 