We like to think each volume is a spiderplant, or a begonia,
its greenery inside turning out, hanging gardens -
our bookshelves become our Babylon, -
making the whole room seem alive with growth and wisdom.
Books were never pearls, were never perfect.
We finger the spines occasionally in passing, stroke the dust off,
wonder why they have spines at all.
To lean like pretty girls inside their cases,
to hide inside their musty sleeves.
: Don't die, my pretties. Dynamite Money, I love you.