The Joseph Regenstein Library
a mound of beige concrete
colonies choked out at eleven
by the closing bell—not sleep.
Seven years of library and living
in this hill.
a mound of beige concrete
colonies choked out at eleven
by the closing bell—not sleep.
Seven years of library and living
in this hill.
After the terrifying
long-distance call, crying
near the turnstiles,
after the slip-up,
the fifth doctor's visit
(and all the times before),
after the lonely waking
to another barely
discernible dawn:
punishment, refuge, breach
the only lit, peopled place
within reach.
the fifth doctor's visit
(and all the times before),
after the lonely waking
to another barely
discernible dawn:
punishment, refuge, breach
the only lit, peopled place
within reach.
Smell of coffee, couches, chatter
the fifth-floor view
of pin-thin skyscrapers
wispy through the sun.
the fifth-floor view
of pin-thin skyscrapers
wispy through the sun.
Sad, tough, old hill!
Will your air feel stale
in hindsight? Or will it still,
that is, at last, make me long
for the limestone quiet?
This honeycomb night on loop?
These barefoot rooms of only
paper, cloth, and stone?
I love library poems, and this is such a good one, Sthira, especially the closing lines. An apparently cold, unfeeling place that is alive and life giving.
ReplyDeleteone to the solar plexus, Sthira. And who can deny the quiet refuge and forgiveness of libraries.
ReplyDeleteI am thinking of both the libraries that we've shared (SSC and Reg) and the kinds of homes they've both been to me: messy, difficult, and yet something where you've made your space :)
ReplyDelete