Library before dawn

It is still, all asleep, Cabernet
relaxes against the glass.
The books facing me
remind me of the girls,
dresses all different colors,
lined up across the hall at
CYO dances, facing the boys,
standing straight, short and tall,
giving a certain flavor
and aroma to the room,
while waiting to be chosen.

Full of words, but too shy
to speak aggressively --
always the whispering though
as now the shelves
begin to faintly vibrate.

Dorothy Parker quietly denigrating
Pound about his politics,
Pastan to Dickinson about the
economy of her pain and
Plath very low to Sexton
on the craft of death.
I vaguely make out Eliot
criticizing my choice of wine
when Whitman hushes them all
and wants to get back to the
slow-dancing of teenage boys,
first gropes to 'Wonderland by Night' -
comparing it to my handling
of their volumes and my occasionally
taking them individually to the car
apparently for closer inspection.

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