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The Timid Particles

Scooting back on the shelf,

The book in faded brown boards

Imagines itself a mote of dust;

Disrobed, it scurries through the stacks

Isolated pages slither into the rears

Of proper books, which jump and squeak;

Some pages folded into airplanes

Launch themselves panspermatically

Across the aisles,

Dripping punctuation.