Books are meant to be read late at night when the house sleeps
and the city huddles under a heavy lidded moon.
In these hours you can escape
from the kitchen drainboard deity
and the goddess of home and hearth
You can open the door to a street leading to adventure.
All you have to do is look down its length.
No matter which way you glance, magic awaits.
The crickets and lamppost light beguiling you with language
and the breath of imagination.
Power lines of nouns, verbs, and adjectives, infusing the body.
Perhaps, reminding you of something you once felt.
The words sustaining you. Fleshy and porous.
Iseult taking form with her thighs and Tristan’s lips.
You stay with them until you feel the sun kiss the nape of your neck
and you hear cars rolling down the street. Life’s commotion stirring.
All glass and asphalt now, waking the household gods, as they demand your attention.
You yawn, stretch, sigh, and close the door to the street’s salted pages and the night’s eloquent lure.