I am trying to gather
my Tomaž Šalamun books.
He died today & I want
to reread everything.
But Tomaž Šalamun books
do not sit on shelves.
I take them on trips,
to read to the clouds & swamps,
to give to drunk friends & geologists,
to reach that final line one thousand times
before dawn plods in like a cone.
They are hard to find,
Tomaž Šalamun books.
They are my always lost home.
A spine peeks from a stack
but I find no Tomaž Šalamun book.
A memory of cover-art from a corner.
A memory of cupped hands.
Some have transformed
into animals with exotic names
like dog or deer or kiss or bread,
animals with curdling histories & marrow.
And some have transformed
into clumsy smoke
& sat atop my sleeping chest & waited
for night to last forever.
This entire pile
that inhabits my bed
is built of Tomaž Šalamun books.