The Book Bindery

by Swanson Tudor

In a mad tipsy leap you 

came up short and hard 

on the chipped stone counter

Bruised and blue below the seams 

against the inside of your thigh.  

Your grand jeté a little too low, 

left you on the black floorboards 

Wincing in the shadows, a bit of 

moonlight peeping between rafters

of that abandoned place.

We had been drinking there

since the last few rays of

early evening shimmered

in vapors of dust along the walls

Looking for a forgotten page

or a trinket left behind.

My prize, a small empty laudenum

bottle.  And you, on my arm 

In the debris.