Sleeping with Books

Inhaling the exhilaratingbouquet of new printby the golden glowof the reading lamp,I taste little pieces of prose,then fall all the way in,comforted in the texture of pages, soft as sun-warmed Belinda’s Dream roses,inviting the inscription offree verse rhythms in the sleeve.
Highlighters and ink starsbleed wild flowersacross aqua-colouredEgyptian cotton sheets.Water lilies blossomin the sapphire satin blanket,  spirals of petals and sepals arising like northern lights over Greenland.
Sipping jasmine tea,in bed with my books,my soul unto itself,I speak aloudmy deepest revelationsof passion and awe,how much I lovethe home they are to me.
Dedicated to Robert McKee's Story, a screenwriter's dream