Scanning the Poetry Shelves in Heaven

Michael McFee

Not fat
        pulpy handfuls of fiction,
but this:
         slim volumes, tightly stratified,

each one
         thinner than a curious fingertip,
so light
        it's like mica in the palm,

each line
         a miracle of lamination
so subtle
          your nail can't discover the seam,

each word
           an infinitesimal lucent fleck
so stubborn
            you can't quite scrub it from your skin.