For Jorge Luis Borges
He fills and empties the shelves
of threadbare bindings,
feeding off oily pages
of Mishnah and Gemara.
He grows used to coffee
cold on his desk,
forming concentric rings
while he loses himself in the labyrinth
of swiftly evanescent thought,
of books to be reshelved
and classroom notes left unsaid,
searching the card catalogue
for some forgotten golden thread.
dj
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