The Librarian

in the complaints of floorboards
that wince beneath my feet,
and the musty breath of
visitors long passed out of
the influence of its shelves.
The building speaks its age


Over the top of half-rims
black and chained
Her back as stiff as
her starched collar
The librarian watches me,
asserting with glacial eyes
that her suspicions are true.


She has seen me before


fingering these volumes
walking through the words
that bring me life and
chronicle my death.
I cannot linger, for she sees
the way the verses move me


Can she appreciate the skill
with which I am undone?


(and
How is it that she hears?)



Ready is she to extinguish


(the shouts and cries)


that which would disturb
the sterile silence of her domain


(my heart in anguish.)


In her catalogue,
she drily deposits
the coded stacks
of bound lives
returned to her keep
by those who struggle to dream.


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