accidental surfaces: papers strewn by winds and covering
          acres in a millionlike patchwork
these books were not burned, but worse: unopened,
          tragic as unmarked graves, as if unlived
my senses are swallowed in the fugue, mist without
          memory of the black, bloodless truth
only crippled may you crawl into the house of wisdom;
          only destitute are you blameless
like a dream, you cannot understand the fate from inside
          it: the puzzle is not made of its pieces
without magic i will leap, fire at my heels, time to slow
          like wondering as i hang from the sky
and yet i am nothing but a follicle of dust shivering in a
          brownian daydream, mostly lost