Between the sheets   I confess, to sleeping with books, covers spread open and waiting— they beckon, a fluttering of leaves like lapping tongues. Oh, their smooth embossed spines.   The tawdry ones are good for a night. Rumpled, smelling of smoke, usually borrowed and broken. They’re anybody’s book, sorry, sticky maybe, used and returned.   The worldly wise leave an exotic taste, others have the common … [Read more...]