We are grey Mothers Unexceptional, not lent religion’s grace;
with ultimate faith and finding absolution
in one system alone, contained and decimalised.

Narrow eyed, our pleasure infinitesimally categorised,
we will hone in on noise making infiltrators
who casually finger our beloved biographies.

We will speak but occasionally, in shrill whispers,
but those who press beyond the shelves we have colonised
may hear a subtle rustle from the lining of our skirts.

If evolution kicks, closed doors will not prohibit us;
we are not reliant on particulars, but will gather our books and
like spectres, appear elsewhere unannounced in the service of orderliness.