A poem.

On the third floor
of the municipal library,
screened from the murmur of
readers, a woman works
at a sunlit table.
Her paste and paper,
cloth and thread.
She opens a raveled volume
and smoothes the pages
where places were kept,
where words failed.
To read has meant
to wear, to fray, to break.
She tests the limits
of what can be mended.
Monty Jones

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