In the City of Books

I found a Powell's Book Store postcard and wrote my 8.15.09 poem on it.

In the city of books
the lampposts never flicker.
Lights lean over shoulders,
illuminate crisp pages
where taut words crawl
like lines of tidy insects.
In the city of books a moth
might be an open book.
See how he holds his wings wide
as if to be read.