in the afternoon being library spent

in the late afternoon being library spent
there is a need to grasp a shorter death
where the details are lost in lettered intent-
yellowed words and a dust gasped breath.

a bit of covered scarlet silk lipped desire
is heaving enough on a scant page turned
to a crescent bibliography of burning fire
where each citation is a reference yearned.

leaves enough in the autumn turn slowly
in an opaque blush of time's modest brush
teases the black nascent wish into frozen be
and ends with a sweet little death not rushed.

what starts with a turn into a lovely long seep
crescendos illuminated into an autumnal sleep