The words reappear, slowly
developing
on a vast unknown
but precise number of pages
as I enter: the great building
empty of visitors
except for me, reading
the minds of the dead—
moving with exaggerated
and slow-motion care,
as when assigned to lead
the blind kid to his classroom
forty years ago,
down rows
between dusty volumes, a light
snow beginning.
1 comment:
from The New Yorker (November 19, 2007)
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