The Bookless Dark

It’s funny your floors are dusty,
With hairballs nested in corners,
And that you can’t sweep on crutches,
Not with any skill anymore,

Since you’re always making sweeping
Statements about the world, as if
You live to declare affection
For tidying declarations,

Gathering everything in heaps
You cheerfully toss out your door.
Your real broom leans in a corner
While your assertions multiply

In sorcerer’s apprentice style,
Your skull like a little treehouse
Kept clean by Suzy the Squirrel,
With firefly lamps lit at evening

While outside the leaves are rustling
With innumerable details
No generalizations reduce
In the sweep of the bookless dark.