You suggest
that we order our books
by color,
and level by level
of packing tape,
we undo
the semblance of order
we had.
Where once
there were authors
there is now
joy
we think.
My father smiles
condescendingly
while your mother asks
how we’ll find our books.
They worry over
the browning
of the palette,
the potential
complication
of splitting
light
into its components.
How beautiful I think
in the morning.