I read the books that you don't write.

I peruse the verses written 

In subtle glances

This way and that.

And in the forest of your dreams

I sit for hours in the quiet of your library of themes.

For there are books you do not write.

And it is my job to take them down

From the dusty shelf,

To air them out in the sunlight for all the world to see.

I write the books that you don’t write.

And then you read them and think,

He knows me.