as soon as one tome is finished
he replaces it to retrieve another
begins anew
and yet
something, as if a fusillade of vines
stretches from one to another
creating this barricade
shielding him from lightness
from dark
through the rough breaches
he sees the maples shaking
in the soft breeze
he sees a girl in the soft glow of street lamps
turned to find her shadow
he sees the pages of his own story
the sinewy limbs tighten
the words are gone
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