bookish

Re: Stacks

In an attempt to soak up everything that came before me,
browsing bookshelves near bed linens and
curling up with the History, the Science, the Poetry
of a world that didn't want me, until now.

But sleep cannot wait for
the retreat of Napolen from Russia,
the thermodynamics of shifting tectonic plates,
the free verse of Walt Whitman.

I awake from dreams,

the snatch of precious hours

from vehement library desires,

panic stricken by the prospect

of how little time I have left

to account for Time.

History will eventually claim me.
Science will certainly disregard me.
Poetry will surely define me.

Bury me,
with everything else that has come and gone,
in the stacks.