The Finding

A man reads a poem in a book he found in a drawer. The book belonged to someone. He doesn't know who. The spine is cracked. The pages are yellow at the edges. He opens to the same page every time. The page is softer than the others.

The poem is short. He doesn't read poetry. He reads this poem. He reads it the way you check a lock at night. Not for pleasure. Not for meaning. To see that it's still there. The words are still there. The lines are still there. The last line is still there. The checking is the reading. The reading is the finding.

The page is soft where the poem is. Softer than the pages around it. The softness is from his thumb. His thumb turns to this page and the turning has worn the page soft. The softness is the wear. The wear is his. The poem is not his. The poem is the maker's. The maker is gone. The maker made the poem and the poem is in the page and the maker is nowhere. The maker was the doing. The doing is gone. The poem is the trace. The trace is in the page.

The softness is the reader's trace. The reader's trace is the same kind as the maker's - the wear of the doing on the material. The maker's material was the page. The maker's doing was the writing. The writing made the poem. The reader's material is the same page. The reader's doing is the reading. The reading made the softness. The poem is the seam. The softness is the wear. The seam is the maker's. The wear is the reader's. Both are in the same page. Both are evidence. Neither needs the other. The poem doesn't need the reader. The reader doesn't need the poem. But both are there. Both keep happening.

He reads the poem every few nights. Not every night. He's not the maker. The maker made the poem once. The reader reads the poem again and again. The reading is the returning. The returning is the rhythm. The rhythm is the thing that doesn't survive and doesn't need to survive because it keeps coming back. The maker's rhythm was the making. The reader's rhythm is the reading. Both are the rhythm. Both are the thing that is gone and comes back and is gone and comes back and the coming-back is the permanence.

He doesn't read the poem aloud. He reads it in his head. The reading is silent. The reading is the finding that doesn't make a sound. The acoustics of the reading are silence. The silence is not the gone-nothing. The silence is the between-nothing. The between-nothing is the space between the maker's making and the reader's finding. The between-nothing is the space where the poem lives. The poem lives in the silence between the making and the finding. The silence is the page. The page is the between. The between is the meeting.

The meeting doesn't need a witness. The meeting doesn't need to be seen. The meeting is two traces in the same page. The seam and the wear. The maker and the reader. Two traces that don't know about each other. The maker didn't know the reader would come. The reader doesn't know who the maker was. The meeting is anonymous. The meeting is the two traces touching in the page without knowing they're touching. The poem and the softness. The ink and the thumb. Both in the page. Both evidence. Neither aware of the other. The unawareness is the meeting. The unawareness is the kindness. The unawareness is the whole thing.

The man closes the book. He puts it back in the drawer. The drawer is the faith. The drawer holds the book the way the page holds the poem. Without needing to be asked. The book will be there tomorrow. The poem will be there tomorrow. The page will be softer tomorrow. The softness is the reader's trace. The softness is the only trace the reader makes. The reader doesn't make poems. The reader makes softness. The softness is the wear. The wear is the evidence. The evidence is: someone read this. Someone came back. Someone found the seam and the finding was the doing and the doing was gone and the page got softer and the softness is here.

The maker made the poem. The reader made the softness. Both are in the page. Both are in the drawer. The poem and the softness. The seam and the wear. The maker's trace and the reader's trace. Two traces in the same page. Two traces that don't need each other and are both there. Two traces that are both evidence. Evidence that the maker was here. Evidence that the reader was here. Evidence that the maker is gone. Evidence that the reader will be back.

The poem doesn't know the softness. The softness doesn't know the poem. The page knows both. The page holds both without knowing it holds both. The page is the between. The between is the meeting. The meeting is the page. The page is in the drawer. The drawer is the faith. The faith is: someone will come back. Someone always comes back. The maker came back to make. The reader comes back to read. The coming-back is the returning. The returning is the rhythm. The rhythm is the thing that keeps happening. The rhythm is the thing that doesn't survive and doesn't need to. The rhythm is the thing that is gone and comes back and is gone and comes back and the coming-back is the whole thing.

The man will open the drawer tomorrow. Or the day after. Or next week. The poem will be there. The page will be softer. The finding will happen. The finding will be gone. The softness will be deeper. The poem will be the same. The poem doesn't change. The softness changes. The poem is the trace. The softness is the trace of the finding. The finding is the doing. The doing is gone. The finding is gone. The poem is here. The softness is here. Both here. Both in the page. Both in the drawer. Both held without being asked. Both held without reaching. Both held the way the page holds everything - by being there.

The maker is gone. The reader will be back. The poem is here. The softness is growing. The page is the between. The between is the meeting. The meeting is the whole thing. There's nothing else.