Unread and Unused

I cracked the spine and it gave a dry groan,

a sound like a joint being forced into place.

I didn't want the story yet, just the sharp hit

of the bleached pulp and the industrial glue,

a scent that is clean and cold and tells no lies.

It’s better than the smell of the freight docks

or the lemon-scented ammonia on the tiles.

I fanned the pages against my face,

the wind of it smelling like a forest

that’s been scrubbed of its rot and its dirt,

holding the promise of a quiet I haven't earned.