10,500. THE METAL OF ALEXANDRIA

THE METAL OF ALEXANDRIA

In the ancient library I walk, the

walls themselves made stony

solid in a force of dare, and I 

too am taken by flames. I die

in that conflagration, and am

never heard from again.

-

There is a place in my heart,

always, for harsh things too,

though I keep all that quite

separate. In quiet, I absorb

the work, as if walking in on

another, one doing lists and 

columns, totals and figures,

lines, and sums. Not words.

-

How is any of that kept separate?

We juggle multi-worlds, it seems.

The sweater, or the jacket, or the

coat; one at a time will have to do.

By choice. Not by rhyme. Yet

only those are with words.

-

The metal of Alexandria  -  whichever

it may have been  -  never fell, never

melted, never burned. It is still there;

hardened now, as words, and letters,

and words, and letters.