It was really a book I picked up, just any
book of poetry from the library after
leafing through some pages there,

and which I took off the shelf and put in to
my haversack, anonymously walking out,
almost forgetting about it when I got home;

but I remembered in time, and while squatting
on the toilet seat I thumbed through the book
and stopped at a page and thought:

here is somebody's gem, and started to fold down
one of the corners, but someone had been here
and folded it once before,
perhaps more,

and unfolded it after, leaving a crease for me to find,
like an overgrown path groping at the heart.