There is a box of books, no Shelves & shelves of black Books that nobody ever touches. How that must feel— To never be Touched on the fly or Sniffed between the pages— Bent & smashed After a long autumn sigh Catching wind of Procida— That star resembling the night Blooming cereus. The Writer’s Chronicle is hotter To the touch, gets touched Out in the open, bursting Into bossy reds over pear glass Table— Coffee? Slick as pages of Roman Prosciutto, spread wild on God’s Greenest & highest hill Sides.