The deep red linen cloth at spine and heel is torn. Inside the cover, in fading ink, I read: London, 1935. Above the name, the last vestiges of a paper clip. I fan the pages, inhaling the musty odour, and slow down at the Wyves Tale of Bathe. Vertical pencil lines mark particular verses. An odd word or sentence is heavily underscored. Glancing aside, a 1970s clock slides onto the wall, the minute hand barely nudging. I turn to the back of the book and linger over the explanatory notes. In the proper names index, by Apollo, scribbled marginalia: “God of intellectual illumination.” I shut the book. Chaucer looms out of the leaf medallion.

silent classroom
a warm ha’penny
in my pocket

pale windowsill
and withered stem
of an early bloom

chalk motes
in sunlight
aslant