for the Living Voices project
Walking west twelve blocks (I’d counted)
I crossed the bridge
to Mitchell Library.
Horizontals stepped my eyes up
to Minerva’s right-hand book,
green-printed, weighty as sterling.
Inside, she sang stories
sounding of ash trees
tuned by ear or key.
Letters flew to poetry
like midwinter spring.
Walking east, returning
I recognised the street―
twelve blocks, I knew (I’d counted)
but it felt like eight to new-named feet.
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