a mouthful of novels
casting evasive statements
another changing feeling
an eluding ghost,
one's written pages
colliding with sentences
clashing against
of other's capsizing
paragraphs and phases
binding in and out
from another shelf,
another frayed spine
fading yellow pages
or crips, clean textures
thinking that we write
our novels alone,
my dear, how impossible
to finish such sublime material
--our own novels--
with nothing but
our syllables
what will fuel
your words,
what will lend
the structure to cover,
the world is teetering
of rippling acceleration
and moments of
seething hesitation
we all end as
books on a shelf
just make sure
your's is willing
to tell