Monday, 4 April 2011

4: Dewey

I want to create a Dewey Decimal
of caresses

383.02 for her lower lip flitting over his collar, like a dormouse
trepanning for gold


081.6, filed deep in the school of classics: his hands on her wrists
with a declaration of war.

I want to spend a hot, dusty summer indoors, ducking
between the shelves
a barefooted child who has no truck with sports.

There is a thumbed spine, towards the back, out of sight
of the front-desk blouse.

I want to slip its dust jacket off, unfurl the pages,
bury my nose in the fold,
and inhale.

The Sufis said God was a secret who longed to be known,
so he created the cosmos

and I built these library shelves to ask for a kiss.

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