the titles reached up high,
the mountains of fantasy
dominating the upper reaches
in long stretches of hard-to-say
names and strange england-like
lands, then came the crime
in black-and-white city streets
and men with eyes too haggard,
then bright-souled coming of age
novels, asking for optimism and love.

at the bottom sat the poems
tucked into notebooks.



Drips of livelihood collapse
in dreary dim lit canyons
of unfounded free-thinking architecture
expecting us to foot the bill
for all the ink it had to waste
in fixing the margins and chapters
and titles.