From destiny comes our definition for 
curiosity — ragged dog-eared library books 
waiting for the reshelving, theoretically loved 
but abused
nonetheless. 

Or shall it be said 
that the tragedy is in the glass-plated 
bookshelf itself? Locked high and dry 
safe from the oily hands of seven year olds
who might actually give a damn. 

It seems to me we’ve mastered
the art of saying nothing. I’ll hold 
my entire tongue between my two fists
if it’ll mean you’ll like me.