In The Library

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In The Library
 
every footfall comes back
marble grained, even the shadows
are veiled in light.
 
Beneath green lamps wrinkled faces
poke through ancient texts,
 
while high above the mural men
make treaties, drive spikes
and spill the cornucopia.
 
In a glass case
there's a lock of Whitman's hair.
 
It's all blonde and silvery!
The guards got nothing to do, he looks
at his watch and down at his shoes.
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