Brother, bring me all your books.

I want to read your thoughts

All left in margins on the right,

The insight that you wrought

From words pressed in the steel

Of printing press and author’s will.

You’ve gathered all the pieces

And made your own true painting still.

If all we are is what we choose

To wholly own or just in part,

I know that I could learn your mind

And find myself inside your art.

We aren’t so different, you and I,

And how we think, so similar,

Even our shoes would feel the same,

Foot-to-foot and sinister.