it was the library
down by the corner
where Oak
and Pleasant Street
crossed every night
that I first saw you.
rugged hands
shifted the pages
of a worn-out Catcher in the Rye
when two spent faces
met one another
like gasoline
sparking up a dimmed campfire.
I took you home;
the sun rose;
and somewhere in between,
when the sheets were dancing
and my fingertips
read your skin
as if it were tattooed in brail
was the moment
I became a writer.




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