Inside a matchbox of yellow and books
Inside a matchbox of yellow and books
Surrounded by literary silence
They delicately mumbled familiar
Catechisms of titles and names
Recited Scriptures of dedications
Carefully leafed volumes to famed first lines:
“It was a pleasure to burn”, and they knew...
They knew the pleasure to burn and dwindle
Dwindle from sentence to word to letter
To an ink drop with an inkling to be,
An idea kindling among dry leaves.
Breathing the fragrances of ancient trees
They cautiously caressed the rough spines
Their fingers delicate and dangerous
Like matchsticks excited by the friction.
