Conversation

In the library that sinks
the book is found that hides
all meaning
not with trickery or moving type
but the wet feathers of
revival. We steer
the wood through the wood
and the water through the water
Our paper is untold reams
of hidden substance
of trickery and magnetic risings.
I know only where
the sun sets,
says one,
and whether it rises,
one replies.
The trees glisten with critters
as we leave them behind.
The door closes
and disappears.