the slow read

you fall in love with a librarian.
always pressing a finger
to her soft lips,
whispering for you to be quiet,
tying a knot in her pulled
back hair.
you can smell the books on her,
the dry pages of
mark twain, Flaubert,
the poetry of Whitman
and Hardy, Upton Sinclair.
she bleeds the dewy decimal system,
you can hardly hear her
moving about, sliding books
onto shelves, smiling as she
counts the days of late fees,
makes lists of what is
or isn't there. she is a book
herself, a mystery, a thin novel
of love and despair. a slow read
that you can't put down.