PARANOIA
Shrinks deep the great depth.
The long sky over the waterfront
today calls an old landscape up
to mind. Something of Rotterdam
in the frisson I am feeling.
-
One-Twenty-One Belcior Lane,
pronounced fairly well as it looks.
An old, drooping place where
three generations of books, to be
sure, were piled high. In fact,
one time the local artist was asked,
by some geek-reporter, 'Tell us,
how do you organize your books?'
-
The reply, which I thought funny,
was, 'In piles : Pile One, Pile Two,
Pile Three, etc. There's no other
way, really. They're not here for
kicks.'
-
Then the old ghost lamp kicked
in; shadows lengthened, and began
answering back to things unheard.
It got scary, and everyone just started
making up stores about themselves.
Like a parlor game, they all were
shared and passed around.
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