a wall of books
between us – a few dead authors
turn summersault in their graves
I would never know
what earthly smell
they had when they made
first love, in which world
what water they broke
when they made ecstasy
books don’t care about these
forceps panting, prosthetic words
emotions sanitized in a painting
your gestures are caught
in a fetish knowledge capsule
a disembodied silence
of a ghostly presence
books ! books ! arrays of books
a presence of alchemic absence
Article 19 