The Book of the Innocent

 An innocent with three hundred milk-white pages,
And no illustrations.

The pages are still dusty
With a white powder from the manufacturer.
The pages taste sweet - like milk awaiting the spike of the pen, the dirtying ink,
And the prying hairs of the brush,
All seeking to invade the intricate spaces of the book's virginity.

The binding is tense - sewn up tight, awaiting a little bending and breaking.

The pages lay flat and crisp - the muscles of the pages sleek.
No unnecessary flesh has been encouraged to run to excess by random fingering.
The moistened thumb of the expectant reader has not yet marked the soft tissues of this lean clean smiling volume.

Spread me, and break me open, for pleasure.

(The Pillow Book)