Books

The electric book hums,

breath gently, contently

escaping between pages.

What if you popped a balloon

and the air kept coming

and coming?

This conjuncture stays in

the library where it belongs

tended by the purple librarian.

In the living room

the dance has become

joints half eaten by microbes,

rhythmically popping.

What starts as a good time

will end in death

as it always does.

In the shelves,

a sleeping beast with my face.