To A Librarian

Let me hold you, or at least, describe
how I would hold you: like a book,

one hand along its back and the other
tracing the text. We would embody

Derrida’s signs and signifieds
but without context.
We would embody jouissance
with sweaty hair.

Let me read your poems aloud, and tell
you how often they tease a muffled

cry from my hands and how often I want
my teeth to be the keys for our lip-locks.

I, too, daydream between book stacks.