I love books that plop in the mail basket like
well-mannered gifts in kraftpaper wrappers
with gracious hand-written addresses;
you forgot you ordered them and
then you open them and
the smell of a perhaps familiar library bursts forth
and there are stamps on the inside, and dates from 1964,
and the paper is exquisite and the
type has depth (you can feel it
when you run your hand slowly over it)
and a homey inkiness. Yep. I love it.
Thank you, person who sent me Wilfred Owen. I am forever grateful.