i am having a love affair with your books,

the marginalia that tease every line of delillo

with emerson. a pen pal to another you, 

years ago, unworn yet by the memories that have

kept you here in this city. while the rest of the world

has gone gatsby, you said to me (three years ago)

but do your thing, and I shall know you.

and i fall asleep with your book folded over my heart.