you are exploding in the library
an open chest boiling and bursting
spilling passion over thick pages
“who can understand?” you ask
despondently you wait for a reply
a sightless philosophy open in front
taken over by a brief glimpse
five hours has passed since
crushing carefulness
cringing with over-awareness
longing for easier and warmer
tepid liquid to gloss it over
and then
a muffled voice from two shelves away
quiet but firm and sure –
“stand still!” it says
“don’t spill.”
the voice says it understands me best –
“this pain more precious than pleasure”
Hannah Black 