the good night

I bury myself in books.
I dig
a trench in the yard
with a silver
spade
and toss in
the works of cheever
updike
carver and plath.
I blanket
my body
with the poems
of Bukowski,
oliver
and Whitman. Hemmingway
joins the party.
salinger and frost.
once in the shallow
grave,
I pull more upon me.
sheets of dried ink,
of other's thoughts about
the world,
about love and death
the struggle
and joy of it all.
book after dusty book
I pull upon me,
yellowed and dogeared.
stained with coffee and drink.
underlined in black.
I clean the shelves,
the bedside stand,
the boxed ones,
once read, then never
again.
all my books I stack
then tilt
letting them fall upon
me. this is how I go
into that good night.
reading, remembering of a younger
me,
wondering wondering,
savoring these faithful
joyful lights.