Apostatheosis

The early British Library, faced with a vast inheritance of specimens

from naturalists, found itself forced to set regular fires in its grounds at Bloomsbury.

Those flames, blue-dyed with arsenic, disposed of mildewed bindings, canvas bags, long feathers;

badly preserved snakes stolen from the Amazon, stinking deerhides taken in the Weald.

My fascination with libraries began when I thought they were simple.

Began before I could tell a book from a body or even consider what to do with skin.

Now my prayer is this: O Library, file me as a small hungry python, a golden rope of straw.

O Shelfmark, O Rolling Cart, receive me unhandsome, oversized and spilling out.

Forgive me this, my violent left hand; my fragrant and uncatalogued lost pages.