the books i haven’t read

what will you
think of me, stranded in joy, wearing
only the twilight, i’ve made friends with
sparrows and seagulls, train tracks, the
abandoned streets of a tired city, what would
you know of something this obscure and
of the bitter turns of happiness? sunlight through
the window moves from the top of my bed
to the foot of my bed, so go my afternoons. what
will you think of the shapes of my ink? the books
i haven’t read?
i will surrender nothing
don’t bother to prod
this heart is slowly drowning in a pool of stars