The past is gathering here like flowers, like dust
in books thick with a version
of fact, opinion, or dream, each
crafted with a hoard of words.

Time will wobble, desire wax or wane,
as any memory can slip
into the shadows easing
across each gray, bare wall.

Whether fact, trauma, or choice of slant
images, memory is malleable,
takes its shape this morning on a rising
wind sighing in a slight

crack in that one window, as blurry
wall lamps bathe the stacks
in a sepia tint. There is a scent of musk,
a slight hint of vanilla, on the first page of one

old book you hope to read
by this unreliable light
wavering, as it begins to rain.