In the parking lot the concrete façade depicts
a giant bookshelf, titles nine feet high.
But we books are so quiet you forgot about us,
and returning to our hall is like moving back in
to the house you adored before the foreclosure,
even for you who believes nostalgia is weakness.
Some stories have become your mitochondria.
The noble sacrifice. The imposter among the elite.
A few books were glass eggs you swaddled in tissue
in the attic hoping someday they would hatch.
Some words are tattoos that appear when you,
the hero of this story, reach your inevitable crisis.
Textbooks streaked with highlighter and grime.
Scifi for thirty minutes in the dim break room.
History fell in the tub and expanded like an empire.
Pale colors of dreams bleed and blur into waking.
You are not who everybody thinks you are.
Nobody is and especially not you.