A Reading of Things

Inside an old library of things uncountable; clippings, extracts, jottings, and snippets. 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; a library in pieces. A young librarian approaches, behind her, books are falling off shelves like rotting fruit. “Dinna fash yersel,” she says, an old Celtic grandma peeps out of her eyes. The enormity of things pecks and probes. Outside, volumes are opening. I perceive a book in every object, thousands of pages contained in every mote and atom. The sky begins to write, both an old and new testament, it is editing every word into the vast simplicity of I Am.