Haptic

In the lost library, a secret room holds
A secret hoard of books lined by any
Manner of skin, animal, alien, human,
And their clasps are fashioned from
Finger bones, paw bones, opposable
Thumb bones, curved and subtle and
Stronger than their brittle looks would
Suggest. The hoard grows yearly, a
Record of every touch that’s been
Made and lived; caress, exploration,
Violence, boredom, faithlessness,
Joy. The classifications are endless.
Touch mutates and bends like any
Virus, like all things living, false and
True. The martyrs whose skins line
These unwrinkled tomes were young
Ones who gained the light while they
Were still open and uncorrupted.

R 25/11/2025 14:07 Norwich Library