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In the midst of books,
machines, and librarians,
I discovered this: to
desire is to crave for the
possible and untouchable.
For ecstasy, an innocent look
will do, while happiness
usually takes a century or two.
Among the shelves,
across the table, beautiful
faces make their ways
across my fertile imagination:
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with them in bed, in the elevator,
preferably while youth lasts;
forever, nonetheless. For underneath
these fabrics and accessories
Lies the thing longed for:
polar caves, the trimmed grass,
ripples in calm or stormy
waters: all above the Mountain.
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