My books have been boxed up.
Their words tombed away from light.
My hands ache to touch them again.
The skin that has flaked from me
settles in the spine like snow
in a gutter. The covers are doors
to houses in a village long lost.
The pages are dashes on gravestones.
The printing date is birth but
when the next is I do not know.
The boxes build like memories
but where will they settle?
What light will open them up again?
