it’s the potential of
dollar store composition books
and pocket-sized Piccadilly journals
of bookstore discount sketchbooks
and overpriced Moleskines
it’s the beauty of the embossed leather-bound diary
(though I don’t really do leather)
or canvas or cartoon covers
basic black
I have an unreasonable love of blank books
for someone whose hand cramps
trying to hold a pen steady against a page
but the untouched pages
each overflow with the possibility
of a poem
I know I’ll never write
the potential is infinite
like the space
in the mason jar
the soda bottle
I stare down the shelves
knowing I have little need and
nothing with which to fill them
mystified by the shapes and colors of the glass
nonetheless
dreaming formless dreams of what they could hold
beyond green crystal gulf
waters and white sand
the potential is overwhelming
like you
you, not blank, nor empty
you, full of lines written and unwritten
full of conversations keeping me awake too late
for my early mornings
you, with novels written into your skin
and songs spilling from your lips
you, full of salt water
like the jar under my altar
you I would drink until I’m dry
and this space between us
let my books stay blank
my jars dry and empty
but let this potential be realized
let it find its form
anew
each time it closes