These books of mine,
their titles bold,
which lie in wait
upon the shelves
just to be read
and never sold,
wait patiently
as I regard
their spine,
but never have
the urge to bring
them to my bed,
my eros dwindled
after years of
grand disapproval,
from them and others;
if they could speak
with pages unturned
they’d be a chorus
of reproving languor;
“you’ve done nothing
for us. Why don’t you
throw us on the burn pile?
you smile and spurn
our words and all the while
work at your poetry,
as if you have
at your command
the ages, but
cannot see the simple
things at hand;
you’ll never learn!”
So I, with dampened eyes
turn aside nocturnal
nonsense, and take one
down, and dust it off
and open up its pages
and realize its words
are eternally young,
while I’ve grown old
and spun my lifelong
web of lies, and missed
my opportunity,
languishing
in my impunity.