Buying the Book of the Season
At the airport he caught me
buying the book of the season.
No novel, as I should have,
concerned as we were about fictions,
or rather, the truth about fictions.
No, this was an ordinary book,
bestselling, not fiction,
but was it in fact true?
And he saw me
handing the book to the teller,
saw its title, and I knew in an instant
that I’d been exposed
and he, poor soul, was one of those.
Set in aspic, sweet but clouded,
as we all are but at least some know.
And there I found it, on the page,
at the airport,
the twilight in the garden,
that particular twilight, and
I think as I write how it glowed.
Gloam the ancients called it,
somewhere beyond the gloom.
A corner of the planetalight, forever.