Sometimes at night in this year of
renewed aloneness I walk the perimeter
of the house, tracing the border between rare
and good for nothing. I think about
the college’s bookplate. I think about
the younger self that wanted to be done the same,
have the stamp of place forever adorning
my endpaper. Elsinore overheard
doubling from my mouth, perfect little
star. I lie down on the couch, staring up at
a god-shaped hole and an emerald
comet, still missing that enchanted sense
I used to have—the feeling that
deep in the stacks, warm to the touch,
all the answers were waiting
in bodies of breathing ink.
Jeremiah Moriarty is a queer writer from Minneapolis. His poems and stories have appeared in The Rumpus, No Tokens, Puerto del Sol, Catapult, Breakwater Review, and elsewhere.
Thank you. Truly powerful imagery. Exceptional in every way.