Soft, soft into

night-fall 
still warm 
like pavement 
in August 

or the gut of 
a fresh kill 
so many 
vagrants 

with cold hands 
hover over 
unlit fires 
waiting 

Let them 
burn used books 
they cannot take away 
your scent 

pressed together 
between pages 
in that small shop 
on the second floor 

up the cobbled street 
next to the salt smell 
of ocean and boats 
markets and sweat 

where you did nothing 
but blow 
on the back of my neck 
as you passed by 

rack after rack 
of musty history