Old Books

how many years has it now been

since i inherited your books

some of them decades and decades

older than you were back then

did you know the value

of your first editions

but what does it matter

to me they’re priceless

because you lived

surrounded by them

i can only guess which ones you read

which ones filled out the shelves

in the sacred place you made for yourself

each time you moved to another house

they have a fragrance of dust

and mold and body cells

a sour scent of

fermenting yellowing pages

pressed together

in a silent prayer

for a long while

waiting to be read

the library i accumulated over the years

from my incurable compulsion

my passion for the companionship of books

expanded to a multiple of yours

your volumes mixed throughout

in a way that comforts me

blending what we cherished

in our separate watches

should i tell my heirs

which ones to keep

distinguish those i've read  

from those i own for no reason

other than the title

or the author's name

upon the cover

point to the few

that might be sold

to discerning collectors

for a hefty price

label those

that once belonged with you

or is it better to release

the sprawling collection

to its destiny

leave it to those

who come upon it next

to sort out what to keep

what to give away

stay silent on the topic

of what to care about

knowing how instructions

of a certain complexity

can be heard as shouts

demands dictates with an intensity

that complicates matters

best left to the heart

on festive and solemn occasions