The Library Under the Overpass

Beneath the overpass, a library gathers itself in crates of rain, in cardboard spines that swell and dry, the smell of wet ink rising like bread.

A bus exhales, and pages lift as if to listen, headlines flutter, loose birds that learned to read, and a silver staple glints like a small star.

An old man sets a stone on a stack of poems, as if to keep the wind from remembering them, as if weight could teach the sky to stay.

Night comes with its blue varnish and tire-hiss, and the books, closed mouths, keep on humming, a choir tucked beneath concrete, taking on the storm.