Standing on chairs...

As with films:

   A hundred that I bought

   and could justify in detail...

   until I watched this one—

   brilliant, foolish, and beautiful— 

   that made more than half

   of the rest seem dull and

   forced, a waste of time.

So with books:

   Sorting boxes full, I took a break

   to leaf through one—

   re-discovering a trail of words,

   a needle to the nerve of some

   clinging sense of “worth saying”—

   that made other piles of pages

   land like rough-drafts, empty hulls.

Same with mates:

   people I pretend to fit with,

   over and over, knowing

   my glossy front cover only ever slows

   their inevitable going—then comes

   a face like you, who makes me think

   the globs and folds beneath my skin might

   be worth keeping, too.