The lovely lady librarian leads me
down the stairs past rows of computers,
down past furious students,late paper typing,
down past piles of compu-techno junk closets
down to rows of steel stacks
and resting on these stacks,
books,
like kings and queens coffined in castle keep,
sleeping the sleep of the obsolete.

In one hand, her keys.
In the other, the proper Dewey Decimal number
of the book for which we search.

“Ah! Here it is!” she smiles.
“Don’t you just love Hemingways short stories?”
She places the book in my hands.
“But I don’t think I’ve ever read
the one you’re looking for.
‘Hills Like White Elephants’, right?
Well, enjoy!”
Beatrice blesses her Dante in the depths.
I clutch the book like treasure to my chest.
We ascend the echoing stairwells.
I look further down to lower levels
lit by dim exit signs,
a glowing orange red rises from below.
Vertigo washes over me.
I fear to ask.