Musty Solace

How wonderful
that old poetry book
you dip into once in a while
--found, perhaps,
on a lazy afternoon,
when your wandering fingers
running across the spines
wedged into the bookshelf
stop before it,
almost hidden by the shadows,
in a dark corner;
or perhaps chanced upon
at an odd moment
when the unsettled mind
is in sore need
of respite.

The familiar cadence of the verses
have the same lull
as that soft blanket
you draw over yourself
before you sleep;
the words
like the warm and well-known concavity of the bed
that you settle into.