An inconspicuous library
in a forgotten country town.
The librarian won’t let you borrow it,
but you may read it in the library,
hold it in your calloused hands,
even riffle its soft pages
gently with your fingertips,
like so many have before you.
An inconspicuous library
in a forgotten country town.
The librarian won’t let you borrow it,
but you may read it in the library,
hold it in your calloused hands,
even riffle its soft pages
gently with your fingertips,
like so many have before you.
In my youth, I pored over arcane
manuscripts, in the vain belief
that I could comprehend
their mysteries.
A car the color of the sunset disappears
around a corner, the sky recalls a long-ago
metropolis, and films of rain are shining
on the concrete and the bitumen,
the bushes and the trees.
I think about what I’ve done and
what I will, and wonder where’s the sun?
Am I any closer to it?
He won a prize at the Marimbondo Circus,
proxime accessit, said that he treasured it,
more or less.
Compasses and crossroads
confused him, and he couldn’t tell
the narrator from the narratee.