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.