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.
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