one

just now i see that over at p l a i n e r i’ve got a link to “all of my books” … and some innocent visitor might click it expecting to find a catalogue of books i’ve written, books in which my poems exist on actual pages between covers, books of my dreams, books of incisive literary & cultural analysis … but no … they are just my books … books that i have bought & can claim as “mine” because i have plopped down money for them … other people’s books … only mine in this limited sense of possession … not production

sometimes when i see the beautiful book-objects that are made by/for poets i wish i could see my pomes on that certain paper sewn just so with the inked shapes of letters of words leaning into that certain surface … something actual … not just electrical