Standing in the library I blow
dust off the hardbacks
I scratch the plastic
binding; it is lonely
in the house of books.
Upon the pages black
ink smears with tears
I stamped a date
out I stamped a date on
every page, because I hate
Tolkein, I hate Shakespeare.
Literature
is a dead end,
a library is
a maze a
book is a turned
corner a page
is a page is a
page.
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