still life
of a library

of a room too big
for the word room – the
word begs more “o”s to
stockpile space.

above, the rain shouts
on the sky-light, a
light fleet-foot motion…
inside, I

sit papered with white
books too big for the
table’s room – I spy
angel men

chatting like the soft
dither of type, a
trick of noise. In a
reverie

I can turn a quick
trick with one or more
of them. (looking down
my leg, I

notice the socks in
my leather sandals
have holes.) I need to
scream. a scream

as large as an “o”.

a scream like mine is
rhapsody for this
still-life. my shriek shouts
through the sky-

light, and rain is now
motion inside a
room too big, drowning
my image

of angel men. they
are types that dither
in another man’s
insatiate

stare. my attention
is drawn back to the
weather within, and
I notice

“o”s like raindrops — they
repaint the room, and
slowly cover my
leather feet.