Intergalactic Atlas

These shelves, nearby, are listening.
they want the sound of rain

to boil into seasky scape
worn hands of mine,

once the pages of text bore dust and
a whole solar system of stars
percolated air with memory

I find a spine dangling free with pulsating words
summer had it in vertebrae
rift the separating stormclouds & doorknobs,

a mouth swallows spectral indigestion
grey matter on those thin cheekbones,
just the index fingers part dusk

where I found you hidden amid coifed tresses
worth remembering.