You want never to be confined to shelves.
You hope they will keep you in coat pockets,
in purses and mouths. You hope they will needle you
into their arms, their hips, their shoulder blades.
That they will scrawl you in paint on alley walls,
on the whitespace of billboards, on bathroom doors
and trashcans. That they will scribble you down
on napkins and the backs of coffee receipts,
and that they will leap up on banisters and balconies
and scream you out at passersby.
You hope they echo you forever.
You hope they speak you out loud,
loud like a siren or a child wailing, like a train car
divorcing its tracks under the earth,
like a tornado waking up in a trauma center.
You want never to be confined to shelves,
to dust and sticking pages, unopened and forgotten,
save by scholars and esoterics.
You do not want to be read.
You want to be devoured as if by wolves.