I love the way books cannot be
unread, cannot erase the sweet oils
and thumbprints like black oak tree rings
they are there for all the slivers
of sunlight and literary cafune
soft knuckles pressed into their
spines
they remind me that while I am not new
I can remain unknown, that though
opened by some I am neither novel lying in wait
or closed into his old bookshelves,
a thin draft in a library of what-ifs
he did not get to k e e p you
however you did, you did
found your
way into other hands, without much grace, albeit,
baltering from home to home
a solivigant prose--

this way, and that, small bind
paperback.

“If everybody likes you, you’re doing it wrong.”

On these dark nights
When the air is fresh and brisk
She is concealed in the sky
And speaks secrets in a soft voice
Showing only her beauty and grace
Her movements are slow and shy
The whispers barely leave her lips

it’s on these nights
She is accompanied by thousands that are fascinated
by her mystery
She attracts even the faintest and shallow of them
They look on in awe
But they don’t see her entirety


it’s the nights that are much brighter- lit by her beaming smile
It’s these nights she reveals herself as a whole
Full and ripe
Baltering and twirling
uncovering her weaknesses and blemishes
completely real and truthful

It’s these nights she only attracts a few
Yet they are the brightest, most incandescent of them all
They sing and dance around her carelessly
They love all night long
In the sky

The droplets baltering their way through the grey sky,
that end up trickling down your spine

Amongst the winds that travel in the highest of mountains,
leaving me speechless**

A moment that stayed longer than usual.