You pull me from your shelves and lay me out:
My spine against the sun-warmed tabletop
My leather covers let to gently drop,
My coloured endsheets falling all about.
O straighten them, I beg of you, be quick!
Then spread my blank and creamy pages wide
And with an inky pen inscribe inside
Your formulae in lines both thin and thick.
The paper shivering as it receives
The graphs you draw on it. You fill my soul,
And still you write, until the proof is whole,
Then press your knowledge tight between my leaves.
You have your fleshy pleasures, but I find
I’d rather far be ravished by your mind.
Originally posted to Making Light.