/250919

The smell of books
I do recall and makes me shiver—
dopamine that is, though I loathe
the word, and pass.

Find some paper again
as all things safe, gone—
though blind and hopless look for more.

Sporadic statics pierce my flesh—
the grace divine of feline bites,
electric next that blew within.

It’s just relentless—
so bloody so, and since so long.

And yet a polished, tortoise frame
(the rumbling furless flock that
penetrates the earthly mud around)
just caught me eye—

will stick with it.