Bookshelf

An idea is wrapped in words and laid to rest
on a page, borrowed thinking in a hardcover coffin,
a shelf is the cemetery, it sags under the weight.
A skirmish line of irregulars stands on the cemetery,

shoulder to shoulder like a row of tombstones,
pavers waiting to line a path of thought.
A small pile is on the table, it's a good place
to dump a body waiting interment, rest in peace.

Spirits of borrowed thinking hang around the cemetery,
roam the night and look for space in my empty thinker,
look for new relationships. Spirits drift
in the rumbling darkness and inhabit dreams,

the ones I can't quite recall in the morning
when the coffee plows out last nights wine.