print previewback MICHAEL BAZZETT
The Reader
opens the book and begins disappearing,
hands first. The invisible
tips of her fingers turn pages,
mistaken for a slow wind.
The ticking clock stops and the spreading
translucence works its way into her
head where it uses an old eraser
to remove stray marks and draw
a blank. Ideas scuttle into cupboards,
one stacked into another like bowls.
Walls recede in shadow. There is no eye
but the one that swallows words
in an endless hurtling train,
going always into the tunnel,
its passengers oblivious,
its shuddering windows
lit from within. 
The Blank Page
The Conversation Paused
The Reader