Running Across Walls

His words invent her confidence.
Theirs is a kinship haloed by the shared obsession
Of karate-talk and cartoon violence.
Bearded twenty year old and her with her
hemp vice talking in a landscape of
Tattered novels.

The wrecked hardback he knocks over
rested on a pillar of old old harlequins;
Once proud self-advertising gleamers
now dust-ridden.
Their throbbings and
forsakens and bursts and thrusts,
Their embossed gold
and shirtless wanderers, all
Haven't met air since stacked.

And he's describing the ease with which he can run across a brick wall,
Citing Newton's laws with the lilt of a rehearsed tongue and not caring
For the sound of a falling book -- gesturing ability,
The flight of hands.
"I'll show you."
And she giggles hoarsely.
Eddies of pipe smoke and shelves of books,
long shelves, pine hedgerows
passed by. Holding her hand, guiding her
outside -- impulsive flight with no
thanks to the storekeeper for the ambience
Of dead books;

someday sold, looked over,
culled and left to rent space
in some dank corner, for they were not meant
for shelves. Their importance, immediate,
fleeting, a pretty thing to find and lose but never wonder at.
They laugh together in January wind
as he eyes brick.