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[0] => In convents and crypts, in kists and coffins, / tiny illuminations; / in private collections chained and padlocked / or dusty, oak-panelled institutions / where sunlight canticles on a spine, / a golf-leafed title: The Golden Bough; / or moonlight charms the pallor of / a forgotten Woman in White; / or a girl from the country slits apart / a thick, warm page of cavorting Sanskrit; / or on paper as thin as a butterfly wing / holds a pocketbook of proverbs. / / Books, too precious to keep, / too tough to destroy, too / dangerous to trust, too / charged with truth, too / silent in the face of violence, too / volatile for the screen, books / are thoughts in transit, they gather / as they go more and more rolling beauty. / Who knows who shall know? / Whom will the finger touch?|c
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