Nice things to feel on their spines,
I run a finger through their minds.
Their smell feels like inside caves

Of dead men, their bodies in pots
Their thoughts embalmed in silks.
They are seams of my old dreams.

Their worms are rarest of species
Of biological universe, fish worms
That are silver and eat our words.



It is a vestigial fear of rain- clouds
As the books stack up to the infinity
From a hyphenated to a seeing sky
Whose stars turn sand grains of sea ,
Each a microcosm writ from the night.
The books can contain anything of light
But they snuff out your breath smartly
As eyes adjust to their intense light.