I enter the library and ascend
to the second floor:
where Coleridge, Keats
and Byron have gathered in hushed conclave.

I have to remind myself
to breathe,
That no one will mind the noise.

I tiptoe in a shadowed forest
of bookcases, leaning on them, smiling,
inhaling the deep/sharp scent of pinewood
beneath dark amber varnish.

I see no one at the tables
or in other bowers,
reading beneath burning
desk lamps radiating heat

I hear
away in distant cloistered corners,
The sound of dozens of age-yellowed pages
being thumbed and dog-eared, mulled over.

The soft white fall
of crisp black words
being muttered, uttered, tested.

After miles
of shelves that groan gently like the Nautilus under pressure,
of tattered spines,
I emerge into a clearing at the edge of the room.

There are five crouching armchairs
in a semi circle
like a group of comfortable standing stones.

There are wide, dark windows
and beyond them
bright stars that twinkle and bob,
tiny beckoning will-o-wisps.

I can see the sky, the moon
is a giant white porcelain plate
chipped and smudged.

I sit down
in the shade of my imagination and devour
Emily Dickinson,
dreaming of frigates to faraway places,

Not caring if I ever come back.