He lived there in the company of books, investigators have concluded, no determinable cause, as of noon. There is talk in the press according to those familiar with the case, that a book may have sparked the flames, may have been the source of the fire. His remains were found on top of, covering a charred text. It is unclear as to his motivation, but one suspects intention with so grand a gesture.
He is survived by no one, not a single heteronym, capable of
reprieve.
521
My lesser apparatus has inspired a polemic.
The Book
It is stationed in a huddle near an atlas,
the typeface stuttering the stale footing
of its characters, the binding nauseated
by its musk of grasp and the organized
ledge exact as a plunge amidst the back
country of Pig Latin or the farming of
its pages. I take the spine full of dust off
the shelf to hand the librarian his quest
for the day. He’s avoiding when it’s due
unsure if determined, a call will straggle
from behind his desk; he says ‘there is a
vagabond adrift in this volume’ opening
the index he points to his mentions and
motions ‘there he is’ crossing the bridge
without a caption. The earnest wander
between chapters. It’s a barn and stable
for livestock in the bodies of our work.