Library before dawn





It is still, all asleep,

Cabernet relaxes against the glass.

The books facing me

remind me of the girls,

dresses all different colors,

lined up across the hall at

CYO dances, facing the boys,

standing straight, short and tall,

giving a certain flavor

and aroma to the room,

while waiting to be chosen.


Full of words, but too shy

to speak aggressively –

always the whispering though

as now the shelves

begin to faintly vibrate.

Dorothy Parker quietly denigrating

Pound about his politics,

Pastan to Dickinson about the

economy of her pain and

Plath very low to Sexton

on the craft of death.


I vaguely make out Eliot

criticizing my choice of wine

when Whitman hushes them all

and wants to get back to the

slow-dancing of teenage boys,

first gropes to ‘Wonderland by Night’ –

comparing it to my handling

of their volumes and my occasionally

taking them individually to the car

apparently for closer inspection.





  1. Craig,

    Oh my…this one speaks to me! I was at a writers meeting last night and we spoke of the death of the printed book. You weave an intricate tapestry with this poem and covered a lot of literary ground.You’ve made me want to read all night! I don’t know where you found the painting but I love it. “Cabernet relaxes against the glass” Neat turn of phrase! I love it.



  2. I just love this.

    The personality of the writers
    come through, almost whispering from the books
    in the library late at night.


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