A question comes to mind,
One thought that rattles in my head:
How should a book make one inclined—
When it's misread—
To crack the spine, and look a second time?

Should it have taken mind?
Pulled pages from its backing, case,
Like slices from an orange's rind,
The flaws erased;
Leave behind bitter pith or be maligned?

Perhaps we shouldn't mind
The smudges, stains, an angled page.
Why should we be so disinclined;
To disengage?
I find we're not so perfectly designed.

So let this come to mind,
On starry night or sunset sky,
To reach for book or fruit declined
And not pass by,
But open wide, and taste again its vine.