Ms. 1800s

My Emily Dickinson

is never quiet in a bookstore.

Citing the texture of

wooden shelves to dwell in it;

all the written tears have a

discount in the sale of ink:

I remember her

as remembering a dew.

Remembering her having more

moons than my stones.

I remember the publication

number and remove it;

removing a fairer night

that day to edit her

white dress and white death.

Enclosing her in the eternity

of dashes – here.

Dwell – Dwell: here.

My Ms. 1800s, dwell, dwell,

Away.

2021.6.18

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