though my crayon topples your marker and greases
over the even, magic slide
you yet still have the other marker
maintaining our divide.
pages twist and unfurl around this
diligent character who minds
where we have left off:
what stanza, paragraph, or lines.
gracing the holographic, reflective
sheen of our divisive trial
there lies a face who portrait
reflects back our own, only style.
with frayed edge peeking over the top
of a book or anthology or film,
our bookmark guides where none else tries
though we are boats, with no one at the helm.
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