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You would expect an uncountable number, Acres and acres of books in rows Like wheat or gold bullion. Or that the words just Appear in the mind, like banner headlines. In fact there is one shelf Holding a modest number, ten or twelve volumes. No dust jackets, because — no dust. Covers made of gold or skin Or golden skin, or creosote or rain- Soaked macadam, or some Mix of salt & glass. You turn a page & mountains rise, clouds drawn by children Bubble in the sky, you are twenty Again, trying to read a map Dissolving in your hands. I say You & mean Me, say God & mean Librarian — who after long research Offers you a glass of water and an apple —  You, grateful to discover your name, A footnote in that book.