Hiking up Chinatown, a stranger
is hunting and beseeching for
an open door and something small
and shiny to bring home.
She tiptoes up the stairs
to the silent temple of Howl
where Cummings, Rilke, and Dickinson wait
in their sanctuary of verse.
Their lust packed tightly on the shelves,
it’s all that she can bear
to slip one volume out, then two,
and sniff their wicked pages.
Stepping on the noisy street,
in the sun, a tourist converted.
The careless masses shuffle past.
The pilgrim clutches her Book.