The Library of Congress.

This is just about as good a side as any

To come to the Library of Congress.

I always imagined it caked in news-stopping frost,

Tiffany windows,

Belling above studious gray brunettes,

And oil paintings of their bare necks.

I've waited my whole life to come to this point:

The light in her eye glasses, the hushing discipline of

The librarian at a skyline desk--hereabouts, green

And plaid.

You know, when you get cancer, before you die,

You grow plums,

And cherries.

And when you die everyone shares them.

The sun, I suspect,  sort of brays on the steps.  Less 

Isolated,

And the library is arranged by a sense of smell.

North hill.

How do I say this?

I remember this--but it's not like a normal thing
You would remember.

Not in me do I remember, not in my sympathetic state--

No,
I'm seeing everything for the first time.  It feels that way.

The grass on the hill may very well have been
Here forever.

And the prime apples will never stop growing--they are growing everywhere,
Drooping from green crooked arms in the sky.

I no longer see my reflection in other people.