After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 54'
About the middle of the book it had seemed
to get kind of confusing, the text gives
a couple clues about the future. Deem
a chapter as a day, books are alive
and living in the world. They even dye
their covers different colors, topaz, rose,
or ruby, porcelain. I'm gazing wantonly
into the spine, the grammars it discloses
to me are sure mysteries of word showing
the infinite. Like days, the stories fade
over horizons, creative clouds move so
as to make women's forms. I haven't made
an image that can capture her ripe youth
or fragrant blossom, to withhold her truth.
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