Gossip comes rare
around St. Simons island library
The wilting woman at the front desk
s with short grunts, her teeth tight
jabbing the wood
The desk, with giant paper rose
pasted on its side,
smells like rubber cement
Courtney holds her nose when she walks in, intolerant
of the smell
of books within.
She and the librarian are friends
The torpid marsh seethes beautiful barely
twenty feet from the parking lot.
That soft ground hums sharp with creatures
that look like nothing.
The massive wet sheet of silt, weeds and swamp grass
buzzes with confectionary motion.
This noise is its most spectacular validation.
A tall cream colored paper mill stands across the way,
a master rock miser on the horizon.
Its towers hack and spew grey doses of man poison,
the structures infected with our future.
The island relies on that injurious sickness.
Even the librarian knows this.