Scanning the Poetry Shelves in Heaven

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.