I want to create a Dewey Decimal
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,
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.