“The Biblioklept and What He Kept, or,
A Flirtation,” read the foxed capitals.
She hastened the page under the thick door
As I exhaled yellow-breath’d daffodils,
Praying—playing—patience to read some more.
Bejewelled with sorrow and weeping a sigh—
“‘The Biblioklept and What He Kept’”—“More!”—
We chanted in unison. Taffetas
Draped our desires as we fell to the floor,
And, tore our hands from our souls. Trapped in a
Chapter, the author drafted us to war.
Then, in our minds, under the underlie,
We dread-read silence as our battle cry.