developing
on a vast unknown
but precise number of pages
as I enter: the great building
empty of visitors
except for me, reading
the minds of the dead —
moving with exaggerated
and slow-motion care,
as when assigned to lead
the blind kid to his classroom
forty years ago,
down rows
between dusty volumes, a light
snow beginning.
Special permission has been granted by the author for Design Observer to reprint this poem online.
