handfuls of air

Into the warm library, into

enveloping waves of paper aroma:

the smell of thought, of ages,

of forgotten dreams.

I find on a rotating shelf

an encyclopedic volume

with an oceanic title.

Opening, I begin on the surface:

familiar waters, bright sun-rippled

shining ships, and sea life.

I turn the page and dive

into a placid blue world of bubbles,

peaceful whales, societies of fish,

and shipwrecks, skeletal and sleeping.

Turn the page and, deeper now,

the last light of the sun outlines

sheer chasms falling into black

where larger shapes glide in the murk.

I hold my breath and turn again

and fall out of the room into

an inky dark pregnant with beasts

unnamed, all tentacled and pulsing

beyond reason, syringe teeth

and empty glowing eyes that know

not light nor mercy, only hunger.

Mouths sifting infinite water.

I know this place; how can I know it?

This hungry void swallows my mind,

consumes even the memory

of the book that once contained it.

I am speeding down, descending

to a depth beyond the light of words.