Not yet two hundred titles listed in my seller account
yet the books are selling swiftly, one or two per day
at good prices this time, not like
when I had 7000 and most were worthless.
That's because these are not some vestigial inventory
but because these volumes belonged to me, were cherished by me,
were sought and bought at some expense
of time and money, one by one. I loved them. Love them.
Now must shed them because we're sinking fast
again. My books like bobbing little life preservers. Still
the ones that have no moneyworth--the titles of no interest
to online buyers--the titles I get to keep, hurrah!--I smile
with downturned mouthcorners, happy to have them,
my jewels no one understands the value of, my various hard editions
Marianne Moore and Robert Lowell, John Milton
amd Zbigniew Herbert--my Dickensons Audens and Carruths
and their cohort--you can't give these away.
Thank the heavens.
The rest will feed us through the summer
and our future moves will be lightened
by a box or two. Full bellies for now and no harm done.
All the same, each little package I mail away
bears the invisible print of my
sometimes bitter kiss good-bye.