I will pick my path around piles
built tall from trees once taller
but still tall enough
an end never in sight
words covering every surface
none could comprehend them all
this number recurring
in starlit bookish niches
inching scavengers bending night
into several broken nocturnes
inside, such blissful nonsense.
nine seven eight / you’ll never be late
your friends in the pages will wait and wait and wait.