Book

I lost my book. It’s got the names in it.
Names for things and goods; structures,
Types, boundaries, procedures, goads.
My girl is in it, she who carried it
Within her like a rare worm
Until the untended bird came
And tore its leaves from her
As she lay there,
Pencil pressing page,
Taking it all down.
Then the vast storehouses came down too,
And the small secret ones,
The shelves and grappling hooks,
Dust, ink, lead, linen, ragged board.
It’s time to go home and wash up.
Home was in the book in my possession
When I was reading what had been put down
In her hand and mine,
Instructions, inventories,
Names.
But I can’t read this while looking at words
While I am assigned to living
In what is called a home.
It is all unkept.
Its yard has turned back to heat-giving
Snail-like deposits drowning in daylight
By the mossed-over fence post.
We lived here once?
We took words down for all the names,
Made markings?
That book is lost, reader,
Not misplaced.