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.