Book Bug

I crack open an old good book,
Pages brittle, yellowed at the edges,
And a tiny movement makes me look
At a small insect which emerges
From where pages meet the binding,
And it crawls across the print, headed
To some place of its own finding,
Could this be a bookworm, I think,
Wondering how could it possibly survive
All these years, it makes me appreciate
That the bug, and I, are both alive,
It in a novel, and me in a chair,
In this passing moment we share.