A Mild Confession

Boxes of books remain locked away in storage, remnants of our move across town, almost three years ago. Although I cleared out closet space and rearranged bookcases, as of yet I still have not claimed my volumes of prose, art history, and Western Civilization commentaries— often on weekends a sense of guilt rises. I make plans to visit the unit, but something always intervenes: papers to grade, sickness in the family, a party for Brendan to attend—perhaps, I tell myself as my hand writes out these confessions, perhaps this weekend will be different. Time will tell. •
On my nightstand currently: seven books, mostly poetry, all at various stages of reading.

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1. Jean Valentine, Break the Glass
2. Amanda Auchter, The Wishing Tomb
3. Sara Eliza Johnson, Bone Map
4. Melissa Studdard, I Ate the Cosmos for Breakfast
5. Richard Jackson, Retrievals
6. Ron Starbuck, When Angels are Born
7. Karen Armstrong, Visions of God

This of course does not include the list of books stored on my e-reader.

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1. William Faulkner, Intruder in the Dust
2. Seamus Heaney, Selected Poems: 1966-1987
3. Seamus Heaney, Sweeney Astray
4. Charles Bukowski, Mockingbird Wish Me Luck
5. James Joyce, Ulysses
6. Matsuo Bashō, Narrow Road to the Interior
7. J. R. R. Tolkien, Beowulf
8. Betsy Sholl, Late Psalm
9. Philip Schultz, The Wherewithal
10. Haniki Murakami,1Q84
11. Markus Zusak,The Book Thief
12. Barbara W. Tuchman, A Distant Mirror

...
I feel the need to schedule serious reading time.