To come to the Library of Congress.
I always imagined it caked in news-stopping frost,
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
You know, when you get cancer, before you die,
You grow plums,
And when you die everyone shares them.
The sun, I suspect, sort of brays on the steps. Less
And the library is arranged by a sense of smell.