Oh, you really don’t want to go into the library, with its green damask
patterned walls edging mold.
There are books In There.
Freakish science-laden monstrosities lying
in wait to engage
your brain in a flurry of ball-change-step altercations.
“In There” was said ever so comparatively.
Compartmentally. As if it were different from “Out Here,” which,
I suppose it was,
incommensurate and at odds with THAT lauded place.
The O.H. motto was uttered with ponytail and midriff sweaters:
We’ve got spirit yes we do
We’ve got spirit how ’bout you?
How could I question the spirit as competition?
I was caught up, clasped, inculcated.
How could I separate the hand
from the hand-in-hand,
from the push, from the shove?
More importantly, how do you say “sprig of parsley” in Welsh?
But enough about trees.
I was talking about Henry telling me his story like it was history.
Once it’s printed, I’m golden, said he.
Henry has an ISBN almost like horseshoes-
Like the square root of a round bush
times the salary of the editor
eating celery in the corner
of the room with the copier.