i thought

you could

tell me

how to pick up or something

he mumbled, feeding that slim volume to the chute.
Outside, he looked back

at the Stacks inside the library windows

and saw a skirt flutter beside the 2nd floor duct.

I should've chosen one of the other drones, he thought,

and tucked a winking thumb behind his waistband.
Through its Ned Kelly slot, the Berryman watched. It shunted closer to the edge

of the shelving trolley, muttering.  When he reads me, I'm reading him.

He's marred by adjectival spots he won't get rid of.  Mine were earned.

I'll call him Henry, little wanker.  Together we'll be (seriously) overdue?  I think not:

spots accrue on his student record; I return wiser and count my pages.

We are using our own skins for wallpaper, but mine's rebound on the decade.

A 'poem' upon a book of poetry – it can be a sign saying: Go this way.  Sure, or

it can be an unintended public act of worship – a lone letter from a young man:

that is fame.