The book waits in the box. Maybe for a reading where someone might like the poems enough to grab it, instead of it having to be placed back in the poet's rucksack at the end. Maybe for the poet to get his finger out and share a poem from it on social media. Maybe for a birthday. Maybe for Christmas.
The book only wants a single pair of hands to stretch its spine and open it at last. It's asking you to pick it up and let its words wrap their legs round your heart...
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