I did not fully expect to read the two volumes of Longfellow or the journals of Lewis and Clark;
I could simply see them, in my mind, making such stark marks on their respective shelves, stolid and sure of themselves, as I would like to be

So I figured I would set them there like talismans, some evil spell to thwart
Daily inviting me, with their bright bindings, to remind me that words build worlds and so to likewise push back against the dark,

And further,
That books are like wines, and the bookshelf a type of cellar, to age us fine

Still, I did not expect the bookseller to ask me, as I turned to go, "You going to read those?"

I paused, considering, then looked up:
"Probably not," I said, honestly, with open hands
And everyone laughed, smiling sheepishly at some joke I couldn't explain but was in on all the same

Later, as I placed them on their perch, I questioned myself:
Is it a trifling thing to deceive one's self?
To pretend on a world which will, most likely, never come, before the clock runs out?
One in which—say—I make more time to read old lines?

No, I’ll not live that way, feeling guilty for any surfeit of desire
Instead, let me be sure, as I lay my head to sleep
That I kept open every possibility, and kept endlessly reaching for the world

It must be no ill thing, in the end, to pretend on a world which might be
In which we sit and take strides for every opportunity, without fretting,
And with no ink spilled to form
The dark letters of regret

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