Paper     

She loved the feel of the paper
the skins of words held in her hands. There
she drank the musty library breath 
familiar as Freud’s dying lilies,
Baudelaire’s sour wine spilled over
the yellow faded pages of Jefferson and Marx.  Bronte’s smoldering ash
wafted with Shakespeare’s sweaty
velvet  in her porous eye. 
A forest of parchment left ink
impressions on her sky. The skins
left their mark in the folds of her
flesh. Bound between the fluent but silent, delicate and bombastic
conversations of words
catching light like sunshine
shimmering in the leaves,
who could tell the computer disc
would slip in not to be touched or
held in the moments cradled in the
bough of a tree.