little free library

i watch my neighbor fill 
the little free library with bibles.
he pulls each previous book resident 
from its shelter. puts them
into a coffin he is carrying on his back.
in a country of squirrels 
i do not mean to be a prophet. i always
seem to witness these fissure moments.
i think about what it would look like
to stop him. the box 
a little word stomach.
just a week ago it snowed 
as much as i've seen in my whole life.
i imagine my neighbor 
cultivating his flock of bibles.
caressing their heads like children.
splaying them open & begging them
to speak. he does not have children
or else they are gone. his wife & him
sometimes sit on the porch
& stare down like vultures. i want know
what he thinks this book says.
does he believe it will save us? does he
believer it gave us the cities-worth of snow?
does he picture strangers 
coming to feast on the pages? becoming
disciples. i am a follower 
of only the birds. the ones who,
somehow, find places to hide
when it is deadly winter. i go out
to the box when he is done. 
imagine the little free library
full of birds, crows & chickadees &
one ripe cardinal. i take one bible.
open it & speak into the pages. 
i say, "fly away" & the words turn into ants.
march into the surrounding woods.
i do not know where he took
the other books. but i am sure
he buried them. i hope he said final words.
i hope they screamed at him
or else each turned into bibles
in the dirt. whose tongue to you sleep on?
i wake up sometimes inside 
the little free library. the size of a thumb. 
turn a page. when i open the bible 
they are always blank. i write poems there
about the birds. about the snow.