Bibliophile

Bibliophile

In the glow of the book room I hold my penumbra steady.
When I sleep it slips my stop fastenings
and performs calligraphy caterwauls in the filigree.

I know because in the morning, the light makes sense
and even the footnotes can account for their presence.

The keepers say the fun here is head capped,
not to expect to be claimed, or borrowed,
that this is our punishment.

The majuscule patrol the night hours,
arrange their listening tongues out over the edge of the shelf.

If they catch you, it’s the big book with the filleted forehead.
I hear they coil press you on the colophon
and stand watch as the sentences circle like knats.

I stay still,
see darkness in the stitches of everyone.

Last week a user came and touched me.
I am finger print pressed with pathogens
and since have been obliged to lean to the left.

Actually I rest on the flank of my neighbour,
I watch his kerf slowly filling with skin.