He knows by heart of apex moments,
battles and the cusps of past,
not from life or death but from the
pinnacles of books and voices
only he have glimpsed.
In his thinning hair he carries
graying sense of every sentence
bled from pages late at night,
and if you ask him for directions
he points at prose and shadows
and asks you for the time of day.
In his beard is trapped both
syllables and yolk of egg.
The aged librarian mirrors
every single word he’s ever read;
but still he’s dust and mildew
and a frosty Turner morning.
He’s everything and nothing.
Kim wants us to write about when place and person becoming one and the same at toads. This is one of the things I have tried to achieve with my aged librarian, and I tried to convey this in my poem. I will also link up at Poetry United tomorrow.
May 27, 2017