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To Suzanne Ryan's previous piece
In Between the Pages Taking a book from off my shelf and turning it over in my hands I tried to remember its origins… Not bought – I'd remember. Too well worn to have been given or received. A forgotten library book – or borrowed from a friend? Then the little ticket stub fell out And fluttered to the ground like a broken bird's wing Cairo to Athens to Crete And only this reluctant bookmark to remind me You once circled the globe In hunt of me; Your torn ticket stub, a late dart, A precious arrow led astray. And now I wonder What ticket stubs are tucked into the pages of your books; Where they take you, And into whose arms you fly.