The books are listing on the shelf.
Pock marks left, where authors, dead and alive,
moved over to my coffee table.
Then there are the bookmarks
tucked in many pages like floss
reminding me there’s something,
some thought waiting to get unstuck,
dredged up between ideas
old and new and from old.
“Can one, by thinking, add any height
to his stature?”
It’s time to shelve and disheveled,
Clear the queue.
Reset the open-faced bindings.
Mind the store,
store the minds,
and stand the titles at attention.
Once again, my books and poetry
protect me, slipping silently
back into place.