My Bookcase, 4am

(Another pantoum... Sort of.)

Marie de France's 'Bisclavret' howls at the moon like a wolf.
'The Assistant' mutters to itself in Yiddish.
The window is full to the brim with stars,
and poems rise up like unanswered prayers.

'The Assistant' mutters to itself in Yiddish.
The collection of First World War poetry shudders and sighs,
its poems rise up like unanswered prayers
from the trench of the bottom shelf.

The collection of First World War poetry shudders and sighs,
ignored by the 'Literary Criticism Manual' doling out advice
from the trench of the bottom shelf.
the two bukowski anthologies shrug off all punctuation

happily ignoring the literary criticism manual doling out advice
'The World's Greatest Love Poems' is sick to death of itself,
envying the two Bukowski anthologies shrugging off all punctuation,
their page corners spread like birds in flight, wearing coffee ring chain-mail.

'The World's Greatest Love Poems' is sick to death of itself,
watching the window full to the brim with stars.
Its page corners spread like birds in flight, wearing coffee ring chain-mail,
Marie de France's 'Bisclavret' howls at the moon like a wolf.