From the Public Library

"What a piece of worke is a man! how Noble in
Reason? how infinite in faculty? in forme and mouing how expresse and admirable? in Action, how like an Angel? in apprehension, how like a God? the beauty of the world, the Parragon of Animals; and yet to me, what is this Quintessence of Dust? Man delights not me."
-from HAMLET

This ought to be the place for me:
see the stacks of ancient history,
inspired novels,
brilliant poetry, modernistic magazines

It used to be
but I cannot stand it now:
and could not say quite why

It's not just that it's public
and sometimes noisy:
though it bothers my sensitive nerves,
that's not it;
It's especially the courteous happy scholarly readers
I loathe

Wherever there was a library
(from Sweden to Thailand to Portland)
was once my garden,
a literary refuge and paradise:
and it is no more

The apples and mushrooms are eaten;
you might say
I have sinned against Apollo:
to these maddened, impatient ears
most all books and art are as
"emptiness in harmony"

Today,
there is nothing for me here:
I must go
adieu
a dew
adieu