Library Tchotchke

Sorcerers and debutantes, kindred. There is
power in spells, lids. There is a guy loading
film in the microfiche machine. There is
archival hush, a carpet.

A porch swing absent a body
still swinging. (PS3521.E735 A92 1999)

Kitsch ads for detergent claiming
Your husband will love it! (PS3537.T4753 A17 1959)

The alchemical symbol for gold
Scrawled in the margin, a key. (possibly QD171 .W4)

A trussed spigot trickling. (SH223 .C35 no.1457)

The library is thinking about you.
You have a hurried sense that she should just
open up her arms and pull you into
occult wisdom. Your little thought
bubbles amuse her.

The guy at the microfiche
is translating a French newspaper.

Outside, students in groups of two
and three are headed toward the stadium.
The library is a thing to walk around, the thing
standing in their way, a useless empty square
in the middle of the campus map.

Somewhere in France, a newspaper
man is eating a Le Big Mac. A woman
is carrying a basket of laundry. A library
dreams a candle fell over and killed her.

It is Saturday. You are thinking
in the library, which may as well be
a snow globe shook up by a bored
little boy, little books flying by your head,
your heart struck through with lilac,
hawthorn leaves, and rosemary. A tomato.
The library is falling in love with you.