I was trying to read a book of poets from all over the world but the day and the light led me to feel their lives. This is the poem that arrived. THE BOOK WON’T LET ME HOLD IT This morning, the sun spills from the mountain to the page and try as I will, I can’t read the poems; only the chiseled notes in the back about their lives: this one killed on a forced march to Germany, his... Read more