I had to find the library near the Church.
Old mahogany was on my mind, dark cherry,
aged patina of dread, graceful and noble
somewhere dark with the curtains down.
When the poet dies, the birds linger mid-air.
I saw it when Mark died. The birds knew
he was in a fall, a clumsy transition.
He ate poetry; the librarian was aghast, just a fluke.
We walked uptown a lot of us,
walking back to catch the morning before the fall
lamenting, Animals in pain, sobbed.
I felt like reading Jung, lush red words, brilliant green
gods, in vibrant hues, contrasting the sky.
The smell of burnt hickory musky and raw,
hung in the air, like the smell of sex
lost in the rush of an afternoon tryst,
she was abandoned. Motel rooms are cold
and odd. They never add much.
The librarian tried to get the pages out of his mouth.
He was fragile yet put up a fight pushing her fingers
away from his mouth. She wished she was a feminist.
He choked on his poem, an unfinished one.