I remember being young and attacking them
with a certain abandon, my careful disregard
for imposed order. Sometimes, I’d begin at
the end and page forward, reverse the order
the poet or publisher had wished on the work.

Other times, I’d go through and read all
the longer or shorter ones first and then go back
to wander through the rest, and I recall a time
I went through and read only first lines, closed
the book satisfied, and never went back for more.

Now I go at them conscious of the willful order
of things, like these. I move from the beginning
to the end, one poem to the next poem to the next,
stepping into openings, strolling the pages one
after another, the way they are presented, and finally

slowing for the ending, the inevitable I have learned to
accept as part of the book. It’s probably aging that’s
done it – I have learned about beginnings and middles
and ends, how one leads to the other without our help,
how order, even in small things, can be consoling.

-- J. K. Durick