The books of poetry tower
from the bedside table.
At night they are a pillar,
the rib of
a lost colosseum,
or occasionally, when the moon comes,
steps of a cathedral.
Some nights the moon comes and
carries them to
the ceiling, mirroring
my descent.
I have this very old dream: they are waiting
for me in a bright current
so that I can find the words
to read to them again.
At night, they are a bridge.

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