I have to hold the book closer.
Not because I need stronger reading glasses,
though that may also be true.
Just small adjustments,
little by little,
the words end up on my nose.
Hello, words.
I tilt the page toward the window,
hoping there’s something to borrow.
There isn’t.
I keep reading anyway.
It feels like I’ve stayed somewhere
slightly longer than I was meant to,
like a guest who hasn’t noticed
everyone else has gone home.
I look up.
The room has already changed its mind—
about me?
About itself?
The corners are gone.
The floor is still there, I think.
I don’t remember the light leaving.
I only notice that it has.
The book is still open in my hands.
East of Eden, halfway through a sentence,
continuing on without me,
like a train speeding silently,
and I am still on the platform.
I could turn on the lamp.
Way over there.
I try to read one more sentence,
but I think I’ve lost the plot.
Who is “dknfihd,” anyway?
—Iris Lennox
Iris Lennox 