This tiny Tularosa library is a speck
in the literary universe
(and this kind of assertion is one the haggard,
Shakespeare-reading librarian loathes).
I am not a philosopher, even on weed.
I am not daydreaming
as I reach and stealthily slip
my own work of poems onto a shelf.
Everything is now exactly as it has been:
the librarian grossing out
every bibliophile child,
myself a speck of a speck
in this library circling
at a great speed
through the shifting universe.