After the Library Flood

The stacks slept like a shoreline, spines tideworn, letters breathing slow, when a night of rain unlatched the roof.

Morning found the aisles wading, paper swelling into soft pale reefs, ink unwinding like seaweed in a jar, and the lamps afloat in a thin blue hush.

We lifted pages, careful as eggs, listening to the drip-grammar of ceilings, the wet weight of stories turning back to pulp, the slow reappearance of air.

Outside, the sun dried our sleeves, a few lines survived in pockets and palms; we carried them home like seeds, and read aloud to keep them from sinking.