Book of Rust, Leef Evans

I've read a book of rust. It had beginnings but they fused to nails at the end. & the middle turned green and bled tealed copper into the prologue. It had a jacket of squandered promise where everything was old. It was a story of cycles & persistence, but it stopped where it began and became shorter as I read it... as the pages turned to brown powder... and then it was a novella... then a story... then an anecdote... then fragments for scholars to wrestle over. And every read was just as good as the one before and I dog-eared all the pages before they fell apart.

From poem read at Poetry Night at the gallery, Tuesday April 20, 2010