Homeless Books

In silent halls of dust and gold
Spines marked for mining ancient scrolls
the homeless don't unshelf the bones
Of Shakespeare, Keats or Wolfe.

So Jennifer figures on stacking them all
Into paper-weight tables and fairytale walls
To fence out the wind when this nighttime calls
Like a wolf on her three little loves

What are these words worth?
If not read to birth the brilliant?
Then, the paper they were inked upon
And this shelter built to hold them.

What are these words worth?
If not said beyond their cover?
Then, the binding that this building brings
That we might read each other.

- S. Jackson