Everything is neat and tidy—
meticulous soldiers standing spine straight
in their rigid garrison of composite wood.
Their pages quiver at the anticipation of a finger finding the title.
But for the fuzzy layer of grey and silky silver webs—
wisp-like motes that float on sunlight and could make you scrunch your nose
to stop a sneeze.
Your lips, dry, purse as you drop low to breathe life
and scatter the neglect.
you can’t stop the sneeze.