it used to be my favorite place on Earth,
until recently.
I could spend hours
running my fingers across
the spines of the works
of Blake, Dickinson, Keats, Whitman.
sitting Indian style with the
words of Atwood in my lap
"I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary."
laying in the fetal position
nestled with Neruda's very soul
put on paper held in my fingertips
"I love you as certain dark things
are to be loved, in secret,
between, the shadow and the soul."
Plath and I were blood sisters.
Kerouac and I, lovers in a former life.
yet, now it just brings me great sorrow,
so I stand at the edge remembering;
goodbye poetry section of Barnes and Noble.
I cannot bring myself to take a single step,
closer to the past and what might have been.
instead, I drink the ink from this pen,
as I watch the magic of this sacred place dwindle
and I download everything I need to my Kindle.
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