Poem

Sometimes

reading The Once and Future King by T.H. White

There is, sometimes,
almost too much joy in reading.
One can only interrupt
others in the room so many times
to share a beautifully born insight,
a crushing turn of events,
or a five-word sentence
more worthy than some lives.

And when the writing is a torrent,
when the author inhabits
every voice and action, when one
seethes and sighs once, twice,
three times while the cup of tea turns cold

then it is almost not enough
to be reading alone, or at least
it makes one question again
the ultimate emptiness
of being in the audience for the arts
with only applause to sustain that sweetness
which is, even now,
slipping back behind the curtain.