A found-object move: a vintage transistor-amplifier
schematic, all thin white linework and circuit notation,
glows against a near-black ground spanning the verso and
bleeding onto the recto — technical diagram repurposed as
pure composition, setting the book's terrain before a single
word of verse appears.
The title arrives broken into pieces — "Library," then "o"
and "f" pulled apart across a wide gap, then "branches" —
set in a thin, wide-tracked modern sans that reads almost
like code. It sits small and right-aligned on a white field
beside a solid dark verso, the architecture of the word
itself starting to resemble the branching the book is named
for.
The poems arrive in a thin, evenly spaced typewriter-style
face, each stanza floating in a sea of white with wide
gutters and low, unobtrusive folios — a grid that treats
silence and spacing as part of the poem's own punctuation.
The same spare typewriter setting continues, with a single
line lifted into italics — "Rainy Day People, 98.9" — the
only typographic accent on the page, marking where the text
quotes something overheard rather than spoken.
Pages 24–25 hold the collection's spare grid steady:
short-measure stanzas, generous leading, and wide white
margins that give each line room to land on its own before
the next begins.
The closing spread keeps faith with the same restrained
typewriter setting and open field of white — the design
never raises its voice, letting the poems' own quiet,
fractured rhythms carry the book to its final page.