A poem: “The Book of Life is being overwritten with the history of the world.”

I am reading a book of moral theology
on a second hand sofa.
My underlines blur the page like
comets across the night sky
because pressed against my elbow is
the fruit of my loins, a
two year old perpetual motion machine wearing
a Captain America costume fervently
and mismatched socks
darned with threads from the recesses of time
as the DNA of my ancestors unravels
and recombines in my body tirelessly.

I sketch these words in the back of the book
to rest from the middle section
(the part with the words),
a palimpsest of boredom and peace
while the Book of Life is
being overwritten with the history of the world
which is being overwritten
by the Book of

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