Those little marks we make in books
a salutation over time over time,
that punch the mind to volumes
refusing to remain silent.
Sometimes I'm a marginalia to the world
punching through and judging
with a black line intersecting you
that I like what you're giving
or condemn, and sigh.
You haven't read a book,
until you've done so with a pencil.
Now, can you read the world without