Waiting for Mrs. Woolf

Waiting for Virginia
to appear in the projection
of little wooden desktops
who, warp with age, the
fresh virgin canvas of learning,
bend into letters forming in the sky,
into greek shapes of mist,
drifting,
waiting, still
breathing,
life into life,
is a dream and a beacon
withers and bends
round the lonely harbour,
a river of cellophane
rushing,
folding invisible inside
waves of purple blue blushing,
and the lighthouse looms
large in the distance,
long shades of deadened
desktop grooves,
and I am looking for you,
and you are looking for me,
smiling with heavy pockets
from in between the lines,
and look up and utter
silence, words whispered by
your eyes,
and your fingertips;
let
me
in.