There is a crack between the
bookshelves. I see you! smelling-books 
wracked and raw, 
Stockaded. 

I do not ride my bike to the library before I am
born, but between the crack between the
bookshelves, I do. 

Dirt kicks up and I brea(d)th
inches-in-time, Amming and will-being. 

Stepped out of the library; a library, a 
gout-word for
A woman who is her chair, who is her
sleeping, who is her not-my-mother 
although,
for a moment, I wonder if she 
will-being as well, 
bridling towards a space between a
bookshelf, wracking and raw, 
Stockaded. 

Scourging and howling in dead of night 
for words that, once, were written in
folds, that are again and for the
first time
being-writing in folds, 

spasmed and spasming, deltas
long-formed in the corners of her eyes. 

Collected, she resumes her rest. 

There is a crack between the
bookshelves; tributaries form in my
irises.