Artful Correspondence

With my new arm, I looked for an artist
to redraw my hand. And I found myself
in a stranger's library, as if
I were in familiar surroundings.

It was neatly decorated and
the walls reminded me of home.
I spent some time there, and I
told myself it was for the anatomy.

And as the writings filled me with
a wonderful sense,
I risked leaving a note of thanks.

I must have left for the night in a swift,
though I was otherwise oblivious to the stars.
The oracles later told me of a
hidden poetry department behind the stairs.

I was never enrolled in the mainstream,
but I wonder — could there have been a spring?

Now I check the library on occasion,
I've grown to suspect an anomaly in its design,
glimpsing at patterns that bypass
local space and causal time.

Notably,
my hand is now ever pointing at the skies.