Prospero's Island.

In a room, a swirling
twisted staircase loom
of strange stuffed beasts
suspended from the ceiling,

piles of washed up, skewered books
strewn, stacked, unread, thumbed
loved, left.

In the heart of the staircase, illuminated
butterflies glow in a Lepidopterists dream
Tigers stare in and out, of dimming lights
timer strips of feline still life

beasts and fowl stuffed behind glass
eyeing us, soul lost, looking out;
the curious reflected in the gleam
of glass eye

He emerges again: gowned, gaunt,
carrying tea and book,
to creak and sigh in to
the leather sofas of the dead

globes of illumination and guesswork,
slowly revolve behind him-
the quiet that corner reading lamps bestow
on his darkness

his loneliness, his hour,
waits for Miranda's return,
while the siren Gail roars,
beyond the indomitable walls

of this cursed library,
where all are centuries immersed,
where his mind, well versed in the sea
of lore, surrenders to knowledge:

without a universe expanse,
within a universe again,
and only luck or sweet, sweet chance,
gave us the marvel of this rain..