And in my blood I know the story.

For the hundredth time two handsome creatures like us

find each other, fitted between well-worn pages;

They are dressed in crisp white shirts and high waisted slacks; they lie

barefoot in the grass, grip one another by the waist;

hide in each other’s hollows, hide in broad daylight, mistaken

for one creature; they touch and say, this mouth, your mouth,

these hands, your hands;

they become one gnat pressed dead at the end of page thirty,

right above the line that says part two. And they are dead, brown smudge;

the novel far from over.

My nails are short. The gnat won’t come off page thirty.

I do not want to turn the page, though I know

Her favorite part of this novel is the end;

I am kneeling at her bookshelf, almost praying,

this stain on the page, this blood beneath my fingernail,

this worn pulp of paper, this story I have read before;

By God we will be different than these men!

By God we will be different than these men,

by God we will be different than these men…