I love the feel of old books
their translucent skin fingered thin
beneath the labor of unseen eyes,
their penciled veins and sketched symbols
underlined to reveal vagaries of use
or ill-use, the dog-eared tracks
like a story weathered often.

I love the feel of young books
their spines supple and unbent
over newly ploughed words, scented
raw with ink, inviting rude exercise of fresh
untrammelled progress over a virgin realm
unriddled with sign-posts of past travellers
and winters yet to be borne.

But in the feel, the loss, the find of disconnect
-ed glassy surfaces that reflect my anonymity
I find no warmth, save lifeless heat
in what neatly lies in my palm
promising in digital feat
an unencumbered progress
to less and less
affect.

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