libraries have always
been too quiet to block out
the voices in my head.
we talk in whispers for fear
of waking the dead i prefer not
to grieve. pages
turning, shuffled feet
and wine coated teeth of the
woman at the counter whose
cigarette break wasn't long
enough. memoirs are too
short to ever have explained a
person and it's impossible
to get lost in a map
that can't take you anywhere
except where you're supposed
to be. i live in a fantasy world
made up of winding bookshelves
and moldy catalogs never
returned, wasted words that never
hit the new york times bestsellers' list
and failed overdoses of x and y and z
that couldn't compete with
its dictionary definition.