Books make fine lovers,
Especially when human ones have disappeared like a mug of my friend Rachel's African Nectar tea.
They allow themselves to be opened--
They are full of beautiful words and yet do not chatter aloud--
Nor do they have impossible moods.
They have exactly so many pages--
I always get to know when the end is coming;
And if I reach for them at three in the morning,
They do not close themselves and shift, mumbling, away.
Though they do have spines
That my fingertips fit perfectly,
They do not say my name
As if I had warmed them from within--
And though I love them,
They do not make themselves the night--
Nor diffuse my heart as your presence does
Into your personal, private stars.