In the dusty caverns of an infinite library
that does not exist
I search for you
I run along the pages of Austin and Bronte
and barge through Flaubert
Yet I don’t find you,
unsurprisingly.
We are different
I find you in the section marked
“Spectres”
occupied by a lonely copy of Derrida
Indeed you haunt me
And I’m disgusted to find you
more in Jung and Freud
than in the great romantics
We run hand in hand
through the infinite library that doesn’t exist
We share our first kiss in the innocence
of childhood
Then fuck in Tudor history
I make love to you, then kill you
In Sophocles
Then resurrect you and hold you tenderly
Wrapped in the words of Lawerence
We embrace yet again
In Steinbeck’s Californian desert
All the while
Still running
I want to stay here forever with you
rolling over the planes of letters
emblazoned with meaning
I want to plunge into the archives
and return empty handed
but with pockets full of soviet propaganda
where I am a Russian child
And you are Stalin with a septum piercing and tits.