He left no trace

of himself in his books. No notes

scribbled between the lines; no

passages underlined, not even a name

on the first page.

—

Look closer though,

and you might see a face form

in the mist: a smoothed out crease

on page seventy four and the stain

in chapter three that shrinks with

every turning page; an invisible

presence buried in a tear,

a crumbling grocery list pressed

 against a page.

—

The force of his breath

turns the pages,  a faint echo rides

the spine, before the mist is blown away

in a stronger current, leaving behind pages

that bear the stillness of salt flats.