A Reading of Things

Inside an old library of things uncountable clippings, extracts, jottings, and snippets. ‘things’ nothing can be excluded yes the air is musty, thickly clothed, muffled and club fingered, incidentals are listed on the cuff of the half-remembered. Mind dust wafts from one place to another. Orts of loss, tittle, and trifles. A library in pieces. A fine looking woman approaches she has an armful of books. Maybe she works here or maybe she works only in this moment. Behind her things begin to fall off shelves. “Don’t worry.” She is Scottish and actually says “dinna fash yersel.” An old Celtic grandma peeps out of her eyes. The enormity of every-thing pecks and probes. She places more books on the reading table. The thought of a ‘reading table’ amuses. Outside the library the world is simplifying. A fresh sky begins to write in a language only spoken of in empty rooms. It’s a braw uncluttered daylight that greets awakening eyes.