In the bookstore's cafe sits the perfect table,
its surface blonde and worn smooth
by thousands upon thousands of elbows
and mugs of coffee and books, I get dizzy
thinking of all the books which have pressed
their faces against it, rested their weary heads
upon its surface, kissing their distant cousin....
they recognize one other, both aware of the possibility
that right now they could be pulsing with sap in a forest,
could be stretching their arms towards the sky,
could be reaching their roots deep into the soil,
could be burning into a soft rain of ash.