the silvery threads

(leg fog) distracted skull ea

ch even the midst not

tattered the quarry’s book

,scant and serious as if ,the

title-page im pulse ggaggging

down the scattered throat th

reads your spilled pages  )fog

meal(  before the court of

names ,forgotten shade

floated in the library’s

shredded breath older

than the wind older than

the sleep desk’s facts

in your pocket jammed

(fog mouth) sharp del

irious flowers ,face ,sh

eets ,esophagus danced

beneath the pinched fog

cus of yr water written

,writhen bleached miasma

clouds the tongue’s  )fog lens(

half face gleams ,sl

iced with b lack

With shreds of paper from Olchar E. Lindsann’s

excision-poem from his tale, The Bibliophage