Book Lovers

We crawl under the covers
of a book,
lie
between the lines,
make love,
smoke the words.

It’s all very dangerous.
It’s not even our book.
Anyone could peek between
the sheets, follow to our hiding place
the ashes
smeared by our bare feet
across the pages.

Careless, we laugh our footprints
along the ridge and loosen the spine,
we pore over fields of text, page
on page, rolling in the leaves,
setting each sentiment,
each groping groping sentence,
ablaze.