The trees of books,
like old, rheumatoid oaks,
the enumerated creeks of books
feeding down to them,
the crabs of books
on the floor forming into reefs
of books.
And on the window ledge
mismatched flowerpots of books teetering
between these uninhabitable paradises,
and outside the window, the
world of children,
nearly fallen
out of bright yellow buses, their
backpacks bloated with books
under first,
then second drafts
of rain.

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