Reading-room Tourist

To open my chest
would be to excavate
subterranean bookshelves
of indexed emotions.

A landscape of books,
encased in a dusty snow globe
thinks itself into existence.

Feelings pile dog-eared
and untouched
remaining unstudied. 

Dare I read them?
These texts I don’t understand.
And who will file them,
when I have become
          a reading-room tourist?

Internal mountains of pages,
rivers of faded habits,
and heartland libraries
are reduced to
postcard titles
and
travel journal jottings.

When will I be brave enough
to browse these spines
and savour those authors
          that cascade bookcases?
When will I have the nerve
          to travel home and stay?