Emmy Appleseed

I have a bookhouse
     it tends to my friends. 
stacked up
           wards, stacked sideways 

requiem for a morning, east of darkness
paralyzed from
                the
       last word
       you tasted— 
on the page you
dog-eared with a
coffeepot hand
shakeside
waysgrin.

And I’ll find it
    again,
stumble to the page
walk over to the word,
tap the shoulder of the conductor 
because the orchestra can play
(did I tell you there are 
symphonies in your hand 
that I slipped you the baton 
when your eyes gave way to soft) 

I have a bookhouse,
home to scribbles and dust.