Books

Nice things to feel in their spines,
I run my finger through their minds.
Their smell feels like inside caves
Of dead people, their bodies in pots
Their thoughts  embalmed in silks. 

They  better be there in the wall.
There they  feel  secure  and warm
Not in  the electric words crawling
In men’s boxy minds across oceans.
Oceans have waves that submerge
Their delicate papers recycling them
Back to atavistic states, old dreams. 

Our books are seams of old dreams.
Their worms are the rarest of species
Of a  biological universe, fish worms
That are silver and eat whole words.
But  they play the meanest  of tricks
On blind poets right up to their sky.

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