Cara Brennan

December 10, 2012 § Leave a comment

The Reference Room

I’m copying discoloured words
and breathing dust, waiting
for something to move me.
I’m told you can hear
the ghost turn pages.

I hear the wind.

I hear men sniff and
use their pens abruptly. I’m told
this is the warmest room
but I am cold;

breeze, breeze blowing.

This downbeat table is a good height
but the clock ticks loudly.
It traces the pace of my ink;
it pours old time down my back.

I consider the lore,

think of yellowing pages
held by ghosts.
The clock’s rotating hands
become my pulse.

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