funny how each moment seems so singular,
impression after impression carefully filed.
one thinks of manila cardstock rectangles:
light print with an old serif,
the ink lying plainly in small grooves,
pressed down into letter-shaped gullies,
pock-marks left by typewriter arms.
as in a card catalogue.
we assume this. naturally.
it is comforting to be so in control,
the only moving piece in a sanctuary of reference.
truthfully, it must be more like
a luge, a bobsled chute. something quick
and quickly over. inexorable. continuous.
linear and rushing past.
no shuffling, no time for mistakes.
absorb everything now.
we may not be back this way.
what we thought were dusty shelves
(don’t turn your head. be still.)
are the blur of trees. the hush
of the printed word all around
is only the sound of you holding your breath.
it’s also probably colder
than we like to think.