Books plummet over hands
spreading like rumors.

Between the ledge
and the drop
mute flocks are disturbed.
Snowy edges appear
like empty perches.

One volume is held up-
scraps of knowledge
pecking at my eyes.

At the foot of the fall
(heaped and hunchbacked)
spines still shore-up notions
inside unlatched ribcages.

Pages gape like doors
revealing only broken hinges.
Scriptures kept dark and moist
glare unshackled
like temple beasts.

This apartment
(at last)
has no space for anything
but the flowing calligraphy
of sunlight on bare walls.
















(C) Eric Ashford August 08