After eight years of retirement
I still have most of my books.
I keep them in the basement,
where no lights shine on the shelves.
Every day, when I come down to read,
I find more books than the day before.
I think they copulate in the dark.
At night, when I turn the lights off,
I can hear them all chattering,
and clattering away. At first, I thought
they were faking it, like human beings.
Now I am not so sure. What are they doing
as they lie there beneath their covers?
Books, a generic term:
I fear the dictionaries are worst,
lining things up in alphabetical order.
Then I wonder about the mysteries,
the philosophies, the religious tracts
that are hell-bent on controlling others,
but are notorious for not controlling themselves.
Whatever are they up to, I wonder,
as they rustle their pages and mutter
to each other on their shelves.
I have a collection of art books
with pictures of unclothed statues ,
not to mention real, naked people.
I am afraid to look at the photos.