Black Pearls

The bindings have all flown
On hard- or soft-backed wings
Back to their nests, returned,
Not to the library-
But to prehistoric dust.

There must have been –
A forest fire.
Or warlike centuries…I couldn’t say,
Something blind held my eyes to the side.

The contents, unbound,
Are without useful purpose.
All occurrences of the words,
Were floated back into the stream
On square ISBN code rafts
And the empty margins
(always already marginal anyway)
Occupy themselves as nude models
For white canvas painters.

There is good news as well –
All text, unstopped,
All stops, made free
All the black dots
Of all the last sentences
Of all the last paragraphs
On every final page
Of all the highest books
Grouped to gather ellipses
One sentence, infinite cessations of meaning
careening into cessations of meaning
into meaning entombed in doomed leaning
into cessation…meaning…?