She’s reading her book again – holding it

with braille hands, eyes metronoming blank pages.

She’s forgotten that the words fell out,

the font scattering like poppy seeds –

the way we brushed them from her duvet,

sprinkling the carpet in pointed black glitter.

She’s forgotten the day this happened,

the way we lifted each typeface for the bin –

then swept up the text with a dustpan and brush,