He ran a finger along the spines.
“Then tell me,” he said,
“which one changed you most.”
The poet reached out
and pulled a book halfway free —
then stopped.
Dust rose in the pause.
“I don’t take them down
to measure them,” she said.
“I leave them
where they can reach me.”
The friend listened
for an answer inside the answer.
Outside,
a breeze moved through the open door—
and one thin volume
slipped forward on its own.