my books

had been thinking of the insight meditation books I've been reading when I wrote this, but it applies to Ursula LeGuin and all of the poetry I've been reading (Rilke, Neruda, W.C. Williams, Lorca, et cetera) and other books, of course.


my books
old friends
dead letters
living under
leaf
of dried, browned, bound pages,
lifting life
to new heights,
new levels of light

and each new breath,
each word or phrase,
each mark of punctuation
a new step
into deepest, blackest night,
forevermore...

no return,
no retreat,
no hope
of scaling
a peace that takes
no prisoners,
with not a word,
without a
fight