There is something about a hard cover book.
It is has weight and not just physical proportion,
but in the murky connection to distant hands.
Muscles now turned to dust,
working presses,
stiching with needle and thread,
stif bindings of thick pages of laid paper
brining life to ancient thought
ancient even in ancient times
solemn rectangular perfection
transforming the gravity of thought into physical form.
Not flighty and transient like the pulp paper backs,
so much huried ramblings.
It matters how the message is packaged
It shouldn't matter but it does, to us, to me
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