Midnight in the house of books
An infinity of clocks are chiming -- all
throughout the echo of the house. Feet, cold
upon the hallway flagstones, roused from normal
somnolence are following a candle glow.
Dark unfolds ahead, flows past on either side
(pressed back against the shelves so hard it's squeezed
between the spines of books) and we're not looking
behind us but I'm sure the darkness folds
right back together perfectly. You won't
see any joins between the chapters, and I
cannot see any holes within the plot.
We try to work it out a lot, all sat
around the battered kitchen table, mugs
steaming in front of us. We're characters
each seeking our true roles and I consoled
young Eglantine today now she admits
that "action hero" never would have fit
her eleven year old frame. Still, all the same,
we are all quite the same; all searching, for
some handle on the drama. Me more than any...
which is why they're in bed
and I'm here with my candle.
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