Tuesday, January 14, 2014
The Library Of Longing
In the library of leaves and longing,
in the candle annex,
near the catalog of degrees of evening light,
I found you, at your desk
as if in the cockpit of an indigo dream.
You had set your glasses down
upon an open page of The Divine Magazine--
the one that no one wants to read;
the one that breaks everybody's heart.
I am here to sign the register
of those for whom your face is the only face--
the Special Collection, shown only by arrangement,
of the unlocked, though tangled, vine.
What can I say, but that I love you?
though you are not free
though you are not mine.
I know enough to say nothing else--
but I'll leave these poems on every stair
to help you find your way
even through these, the most terrible volumes;
even through separation and broken bindings,
even through the most blinding tears.