Typed Music

Poems.

I suppose these are just little pieces of me, wrapped up in words.

The forgotten melodies of my mind.

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68. The story that stopped in the library

he weeps in that subtle way
 whereby the crumbs of grief
 shaken from his eyelids
 are caught by his thumbs
 and his head shakes
 like a kite chewed by a tree
 he's all trembles and tremors
 and he quakes
 like his body breaks
 when tectonic plates collide
 he surveys the carpet and the shoelaces
 the way that all librarians know their places
 the books return to their stands and their spaces and
 he keeps his fear in the crook of his tongue
 and eyes hook him like bait
 that's there for the taking
 he pulls with veined hands
 at the ashen strands of his afro
 they've seen more years evaporate
 than they've seen tears
 because his eyes and sacked and
 the corners of his cornered collar
 escape his clasp as he cracks
 among the shelves
 like dropped eggs
 and window panes
 and dancers' legs
 and weather vanes spun too hard
 he gets a should touch like
 a stroke through the wire of a rabbit hutch
 and he sits beside closed ears
 that pretend to listen to the clutch of his fingers
 on his forehead

he leaves and they rearrange the chairs
 remove the water glass
 and erase the marks
 of where his heart has passed

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