Gossip comes rare around St. Simons island library.
The wilting woman at the front desk sharpens
yellow pencils with short grunts, her teeth tight
jabbing the wood in.
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.

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