Open a door
Of a roomed room.
Go walk ‘inside’:
Shelves have been propped upon floorboards,
Books have been propped upon the shelves.
Beneath the light,
Read each title:
“This is for me.”
Smear off the dust
Which dance midair
And glint each spin
(They look as if they are blinking
They look as if they are clapping)
Under the light
Spotting me move
By move by move.
Those webs above
(Spiders on top)
Drooling their silk–
With each wind my body does make,
They blow with me and stick to me–,
They glint as well,
Not like the eyes,
But like fingers.
Dark. Vision won’t
adjust. There’s the
light where my bo
dy should be. This library has
no book for me. Each gasp panics
the dust. The webs
hook me, the spi
ders on my skin
Light on my head.
Walk to the shelf.
Close my own book:
“By my troth, I do stay with thee!”
A bow before I turn to leave.
The dust do clap.
The spiders weave.
Exit stage right.