If you’ve got a few minutes, and want to give yourself a treat (because I know you, you bibliophile, and I know you’d like this), then go and read Albert Goldbarth’s meandering, hand-drumming poem “Library.”
I think I’m going to print it out and put it on the wall next to my classroom library. Maybe.
I open this book and smoke pours out, I open this book and a bad sleet
slices my face, I open this book: brass knuckles, I open this book: the
spiky scent of curry, I open this book and hands grab forcefully onto my
hair as if in violent sex, I open this book: the wingbeat of a seraph, I
open this book: the edgy cat-pain wailing of the damned thrusts up in a
column as sturdy around as a giant redwood, I open this book: the travel
of light, I open this book and it’s as damp as a wound, I open this book
and I fall inside it farther than any physics, stickier than the jelly we
scrape from cracked bones, cleaner than what we tell our children in the
dark when they’re afraid to close their eyes at night.