His finger traces spines; blind
he reads the gilded letters
embossed as braille
he’s forming stanzas in his mind.
Heart of darkness, beating.
Craving fleur de mal.
But the aged librarian can only dream in sepia
of nyloned legs
her heels, mischievous curls she’d kept hidden;
the way she used to eyelash him;
loins were longing.
his lips are parchment (dry from poetry)
back in time to the moment she moved out and left him pressed
between the pages
as a bookmark (one of many) in her books unread
Shay is giving a choice of pictures at toads. My agaed librarian had the eyes for books (he thought at first).
Janury 5, 2017