I'm sitting in the public library, and I'm realizing,
"This is the place where people go
who are the most ordinary
of fantastical sameness."
And this changes into white-walled cinder block,

beauty bent over broken.

And this changes into simple.
And this changes the boring of your
walled perspective of jobs with money;
of kids grown straight out of the suburban air
-like aliens.

And takes you through the dust
of used xerox copy machines
and takes you to the old lady, pissed off
and where is my university?

It's gone;
slipped through my fingers -
ash from the altar
of the angel's incense.

and the hum of the computer,
and the clicking of stranger's fingers,

but paper butterflies hang from the ceiling
and my ordinary gives me the feeling
that they would stoop down,
wings pulsing slowly,
and take me to the Deep Heaven of this place.