stacked high with quiet thunder.
Cardboard ribs, wooden bones,
holding two thousand hearts.
Poetry.
Not whispered—
stored.
Two thousand volumes,
each one waiting
to be opened,
to be chosen,
to be read into the world.
2000.
Now—
we sort.
(Fixed via ChatGPT)
stacked high with quiet thunder.
Cardboard ribs, wooden bones,
holding two thousand hearts.
Poetry.
Not whispered—
stored.
Two thousand volumes,
each one waiting
to be opened,
to be chosen,
to be read into the world.
2000.
Now—
we sort.
(Fixed via ChatGPT)