I like to think of them as a collection
something meaningful
a world of words I've chosen
to surround myself with
a house and garden with enough variety
to satisfy my soul
but lately what I feel is a reproach
the way they stare
down from the shelves
I've built for them reminding me
that even if I live
another fifteen years
I'll never read them all
and yet I can't stop ordering
it's as if by buying books
I fool myself
into thinking that I've bought
the time to read them