they are books

your books
along the shelves
are silent.
you've carried
them far,
as they have you,
once read, some
twice,
a few battered
from
so many reads
late into cold
nights.
but they are
not hands, or
hearts.
they don't sit
at any
table with you
to eat a meal.
they don't
point at the moon
and say look.
they are
books.