stepping into a quiet space

outside the library this afternoon
was the smell of salamander
and the familiar voice inside
my electronic communications box
held to my ear.
The picnic benches were wet then.
It must have rained
while I was in the bathroom.
And earlier a woman had folded out
a book
for me to look at
and she
had talked of maps and the art
of map-making. We were poets, you see,
her and I.
An arrangment of peacocks
was placed against the wall to my right,
her left.
She knew I would be leaving, she said,
she was also going away.
She would have to return
and she also knew
I had no placemats left
to return to, and that
alongside all of these things
and even supposing the existence
of a various assortment
of other, unseen things,
there is still this afternoon
outside the library to attend to.
And there will be tomorrow afternoon
to attend to as well as the next afternoon
after that.