The books are listing on the shelf.

Pock marks left, where authors, dead and alive,

moved over to my coffee table.

Then there are the bookmarks

tucked in many pages like floss

reminding me there’s something,

some thought waiting to get unstuck,

dredged up between ideas

old and new and from old.

“Can one, by thinking, add any height

to his stature?”

It’s time to shelve and disheveled,

Clear the queue.

Reset the open-faced bindings.

Mind the store,

store the minds,

and stand the titles at attention.

Once again, my books and poetry

protect me, slipping silently

back into place.