Books

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It’s this thing I used to do

When I was a child, run my fingers

Over the titles of the books, taking

One down and flipping through,

Trying to find myself in the pages,

In that storm cloud of possibilities,

But I was stuck; I couldn't see

How the ocean of words decided

To be fantastic, and that the bravest

Thing one could do was be ordinary,

Like picking up cigarette butts off the porch,

Like listening to a bee as it made its way

Around the kitchen.

I did not yet know that everything

Loses its meaning, even the numbers,

Even the grass. And, if you're lucky, you see

Past the end of divinity, you see your

Girlfriend running her hand along the spines,

Pulling out a thin book, finding that #9 poem 

In Pictures From a Gone World, by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

"but then finally one day / she who has always been so timid / offs with her glove and says / (though not in so many big words) Let's lie down somewheres / baby"

And then we lit each other up, careful not to burn

The books.

.