Friday, 17 April 2015

The Self-Consuming Library

A black cape sweeps out
The lights of the horizon,
Leaving behind books
That explode with their own outrage.
They burn from within
Text blisters into flame
Before the covers even move.
A chiffon swish
A rustle of curtains
Across the leather of the reading rooms.
A figure slipped away
Moments before the shelves erupted,
His only gift
The scabrous and destructive catalogue.

This is no rescue.

This is transfiguration.
 (for DH-M)