The Resting Machine

When I walk through the hedges

of the library, it is difficult to keep

my mind from turning

each instance into verse.

The colors and titles stream past

my face like a rainbow obituary

as the window at the end of the hall

reflects the ceiling light into a crucifix.

I realize, once outside, that I was so busy

pontificating that I missed the moment

of my surroundings. We cannot constantly

metaphor the world, at times we must

be a resting machine, whose function

is to observe and feel without a means

of processing any of symbols in our coffee.

Later, at night, by the fire or in the quiet

bathroom waterfall, we can remember

the silent elevator ride and how the closing

doors were lips of a beast that swiftly digests us,

dumping strangers into the bowels of this building.

Leaving the library, I wave back to a greeting

meant for the person behind me,

but a smile is a smile and perhaps

I simply needed to move my arm.