books

First, the book is on the shelf. No gesture--only posture. But a whisper.

Then the book is on the night stand. It lulls you to sleep--waits for you t'il morning.

Then it's under the pillow.

Then it is the pillow. Deforming the skull. Following you in the dark.

Under the skin. Into the blood. An invited parasite. Whether incrementally or in a crash, a good book takes us. And if we are the same when its over, then something has failed.

But the words--static and immortal--can they fail?