At the Public Library

People at tables in long rows,
Receding faces blued by computer screens.

Overhead a symphony of light fixtures
Hang like glabrous fruit.

The homeless have taken their stations
Cursing to their vacant companions.

An owl near the Swift collection
Calls to Coleridge’s birds.

A coelacanth in natural history
Stalks someone by the creaking radiator.

Ophelia’s lament echoes up the grand marble staircase.

A switch has taken place without people knowing it — magnetic north has been replaced by a wind sock.

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