Libraries

I am a book Given to myself by my mother, given to herself by hers, and so on I am a name Given to me by my own pages turning past the last Wording on my skin, lifted with water and vinegar I am a book; cover bent and misshapen Used up and abused, books stole past me One another telling lies, because we are books And lies are known to represent books I am a word Given to me by my father, and his to him by his father, and so on I am nothing short of a miracle Mesmerizing in the rain, metastasized by the disease of me Fire lighting candles on trash cans, and burning incense on windowsills My name is John Doe, or perhaps just Jane Or maybe I am another Silence Dogood Writing as someone with nothing to do, someone else to be Or maybe I am a tree; rooted in my own ground, soon to be turned into new pages Words chiseled into my skin, "I am just what I am." And who cares to distinguish the truth from my bones? I am a book; carved in stone Etched in eyeglasses and on brick walls My words plain nonsense, but understood where it matters Because books sometimes aren't understanding Because books sometimes don't seem understanding I am a book; dropped in a river Rocks have eaten away at my flesh, like rocks do Because rocks are of rocks And I am of books