“Books Are Blood”
Give me back my blood.
You have it in boxes.
Don’t ask where I’ll put it.
That’s not your concern.
Give me back my blood.
I miss its warmth on my lap.
It misses me, too.
It cries to have me back.
Although—it’s in me now,
so no on one can keep us apart.
The knowledge—and its passing,
like all things of the heart.
