Thursday, September 23, 2010

Evening at the book shop

we inhaled
the still air
of the mouldy book shop
weighing every book
that passed
Through pathways
his star eyes
through words
shun between two covers
Each persisting scent
come seeking
our fingertips
some words
galloped into our palms
Each cramped corner
neighbour to words and dust
follow his eyes
Ivory of paper
yearns to live
in our lips, fingertips
Those left behind
we wouldn't know
their whereabouts ©

No comments:

Post a Comment