drops, the man, his book.  it has no end.  but what can be said to men such as he,
not open to the closed terrors of want?  I've doors to lock.  the head librarian
may never return.  presently, sir, I've a candle to light

squired as I am to the dark aisle of sighs.  
the girl, there, on her belly
pretending to read
the intricate press
of your thumb
on her heel-

I don't suppose you'll find her shoes.