that place where we all someday hope to die
or rot at least (our skins like autumn leaves
a shelf or two devoted to each mind aloof or
in solidarity with those whose fame exceeds
our own (no matter now this system lets us
alphabetise our names as privilege leans on
the obscure & the vain support the humbled
yes the catalogue protects it gives each of us
some space in which to rest canonised alone
awaiting the three miracles the beatification
in some heavenly curriculum (of ars poetica
each brailled punchcard touched by hands &
returned to its drawer the air’s conditioned
interprets you (guard against the lonely dew