The Library

A body bound in sweaty leather.
The Dinesen, the Wouk,
the set of Shakespeare hand-sewn,

sinew harvested from the body.
Each word, a cell from the body.
Each body hollow, a façade

gilt-lettered, marble-boarded.
A secret note of love or rage
hidden between pages 11 and 12.

Its body, bent and stressed,
a field of black harvest, white land.
You, reader, have read this all before.

Don’t worry. The culprit
is not so easily caught, and herrings
red and otherwise abound.