When all animals have died
even the ones in booksgrow frightened, their eyes
like wormholes. Their spinesnot so much broken, but the hide
abraded and peeling. The guttersfilled with debris,
plucked feathers, old yellow tape.No one was there
to hear their last song.And in between the last pages
were two old brown leavesspeaking in a language
only other brown leaves would know.
Daniel Bourne (via Guernica)
