Knox Thompson first crossed paths with the man who would…
Left in the Lurch
I could go on forever
in this labyrinth of wood pulp,
plucking beeswax stalks off sconces,
pulling & prodding at appendages
of statues that appear to flinch.
A rustle of paper
trailing shadows
in the corner of my eye.
Nerves turn into extinguished wicks
with a fist-full of bronze braid as
the heavy curtain draws open.
Light from the picture window
falls across a section of ancient history.
Warily through the corridor of light,
I pry at a maroon spine
scrawled in faded gold lettering,
revealing a false panel
in the oak shelves, shifting perspectives.
A spiral staircase plummets.
I find myself lodged
in a cobwebbed enclave
of catacombs lined
with faded self-portraits,
silver emblems of dead names
embroidered on the tip of the tongue.
The librarian shushes from the other side,
and the hidden door slams behind me.