They were with me for forty years,
In thick and thin and fat and lean.
They would eat all bodies’ words
And bodies choked on their dust.
They would swim print and dust
And bring books to the final dust.
They levelled with me in the glass
Bouncing at ends of space as fish
In glass to amuse human follies.
I mistook them for silvery words.
Silence is golden but the speech
Often is silver in a book’s spine.