At dusk the librarian anticipates the night
and gets ready to to close the doors;
he walks the halls, making sure
that every visitor and thief have left,
and as shadows travel in his wake
he can hear again
voices from the volumes:
laments from every book unread
an impassioned arguments between an essay
and a science-fiction book,
a misplaced cookbook reciting
recipes for amanita stew to
of giggling pocket-books of crime;
and a lonely book of poetry
to make-believe ikebana flower arrangements
on table standing by a wall,
while a rowdy quibble is brewing
between a less important volume
of Encyclopedia Britannica
and the 1987 telephone directory
of Upper East Side
on where one may procure
the best ossobuco in the world.
The librarian have learned
to never, ever
argue with the books,
and listens, learns how even random
words can stitch themselves to sense.
he gently drifts to sleep
only waking when the silence falls
as the daylight slowly tiptoes
through the dust of empty halls.
He sighs and opens up the doors
again, knowing that returning visitors
(and thieves) soon will soil his soul
with pointless queries
that the books keep buried from the world,
Even at the break of dawn
the librarian anticipates return of the dusk.
We are writing poem in circles, with Peter at dVerse. I thought that the library would be a place of infinite in space-time. I can imagine that the the library only comes to life at night.
March 23, 2021.