I came awake to the world
on hand-me-down books
from my mother's shelf--
That's how I organize time:
the moment I discovered fantasy,
the moment I discovered poetry.
(As if it had never existed before.)
I passed books down to my sister.
And the day I thought of her
an individual self-contained,
was the day she started reading books
that I wouldn't and couldn't.
Is this something
all human beings pass through?
A needle's eye
that judges your soul's worth?
Do we read books to test ourselves
against truths couched in lies
and lies woven into truths?
I never understand those who would not read,
and illiteracy I imagine
is the horror of waking up blind
to a world speaking in tongues.
I live on the pleasure of books.
And all of human greatness
(and even heaven)
is as Borges' library,
infinite and eternal.
Let us slip between the pages
forever and ever.
Not entirely happy with this. (But then again, when am I?)