In the Old Reading Room
Only the shirr of pages being turned
suggests that anyone's alive.
In silence this extreme your neighbour's
heart might beat into your thoughts
and I'm already troubled by the air that's been
breathed and breathed a thousand times.
I stare at the blank page where I should
be making notes, take out a bag of grapes
to eat, laying the pips out on my pad as if
each one were an insight of significance.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Gill McEvoy would be
pleased to hear them.