My fingers, considering
Traveled across the spines
So many, so fine
Needing to feel
Some quality
Straight and narrow
Not papered over
Hard-core
Look at You, there
But out of circulation
Not knowing why
I take you
From the forbidden shelf
Give you my time
Forget to return you
No care for the fine
We are alone, but looking less alone these days, these nights
A bit oxidized, without a second pair O’ eyes to tend to things too
And of gardens, flowers and florals seem to be in season into perpetuity
Libraries, are we, arent we?
May our posterity, should they someday see it so, pity us none
LisaRosier.com 