I like to hold a book,
to dog ear it's pages,
to find the one I read last year
and wonder why I underlined the phrase,
"at my departing".
Smelling the binding,
hoping no one's watching
my preference in perfume.
But here comes Kindle.
Throw out a word
and an odorless tome springs back
like an echo
looking for a place to light upon.
Google, owning the art of conjure,
has the noble goal
to possess the world of words,
so we can click like katydids
and ride a wave of language.
Instead of burning books
I mean to collect and pose on shelves
a roomful of verbiage,
wrapped in as much dust as possible,
that motivates me to find
the one that's signed by Austen.
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