A poetic description of one of the Duke Libraries in North Carolina.
There is an
old splintery desk up in the
Duke Library, twin across the lawn, up where rare go.
Secret messages carved with crude hands,
cruder thoughts. If you follow the hallway
out, instead of pursuing the narrow metal, you
overlook modern silent history, chandeliers, and
scrollwork. Go a bit further, there is an Oriental
room decked in red and unspoken Mandarin,
a soft carpet meant for feet,
not those feet in shoes constantly
rubbing away the threads of the universe.
Shh. Be quiet. This is a library after all.