(In a Library)
It seems the ultimate act of faith.
Belief that entropy itself will not be our undoing, will not simply turn on us and begin running backwards.
The coffee cups in the cracked hands of the ladies manning the cloak room will remain whole.
The letters will remain in the order which they were meticulously, considerately placed.
I, knowing only the very bones of them, recognising names and concepts, and occasions amongst them.
What I might do if I was to find the time, finally just sit down and begin to read
A, B, V, E …
There most be somebody who knows each one, each of the letters and combinations, in their rows and drawers.
Or perhaps it is just me, and the ladies in the cloak room.
Interpreting the meaning of it,
the real value of it all,
here in it’s place.