Am I a vicious reader,
or do I simply love to look
studious, a scholar amidst animals
out of tune to written words?

Do I wish to taste of the stuff of stars
to know their substance
or to show to others
I have their colors on my tongue?

I fear I sit among volumes,
filmed in dirt just like their authors,
calling for them to read me their works
only to tell others I’ve spoken with a ghost.

Were I alone among these stacks,
desolate from life for good,
would I become a scholar,
or eat the books for food?