bibliothèque intérieure, Jennefer Cole

you wanted books in order 

from a to z on the shelves 

like a library, sorted; 

me, by size or color or age 

which you found so annoying 

not grasping the logic

of a “little something” 

so esthetic, so subjective 

so now that i can do what i want –  

mess them up, lay them upside down, 

even on the floor under a cuppa, 

whichever way, whatever order – 

i don’t … i can’t – 

& though you won’t sigh & side 

glance over my negligence 

i keep your established plan 

of bookshelves full of silent 

words, sometimes highlighted 

by your hand where they touched 

you quietly, which i find   

here and there, tucked away notes 

like on the poem i wanted to use  

for your ceremony, pulling it out 

to find you speaking to me