We are

             never quiet; we will never

be quiet. Books

                          and the dark and our hands

             that beg to gods once here, who come

not when they’re called, cold and hard

                          in their own world waiting for the fire

engine to break traffic. Fire in

                                       the library lit to the ceiling

             with words begging at sealed windows. Now

                          is the hour 

of understanding the red house won’t last; we

                                                                 won’t last. This

             is the closing down sale—claim me

                          and pay the price. Nothing

spares us, not even the moon’s white blade.