I am reading a book. Nothing unusual in that. I read a couple a week. This one, though, sneaks poetry back into my life. I used to read poetry a lot. I used to write it. I can’t remember when I decided that was self-indulgent. Perhaps when bearing responsibility loomed large. Perhaps when privacy was lost to the sharing of living arrangements. A friend and I would exchange haiku on postcards, back when postcards were a thing and we were young enough to not have to behave like adults. I would read poetry like I read novels. My favourites were Cope, cummings, Hannah, Keats, Lochhead and Whitman. When love was young and we were exploring, we would read cummings out loud to each other, lounging on the bed, decadent in our untested attachment. Attachment solidifies and, like plastic, turns brittle with age. There is no room for poetry now. So sneakily this book returns it and I find myself reading poetry in secret, under the guise of reading a novel. Francis Jammes crosses my path, and Dong-ju Yun: Up where the seasons pass / the sky is filled with autumn. / In this untroubled quietude / I could almost count these autumn-couched stars.