In the deathly quiet of the midnight house
the new regime had been adhered to.
With a brown leather bag hooked over his shoulder
he had followed the ghost of a railway line.
After dark and dinner the work continued
in a pool of yellow lamplight.
flowing an endless rain of words
that came from the hand
that had touched the morning’s cold moss.
He kept on going until the digits in the sphere
tripped a code that said sleep now, sleep.
But no books have risen from this reservoir, so far