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.