TOMBS AND MORE TOMBS
I am reading some very old things, by
people professing to know what they say.
I make no judgements but let them have
their way; it's only a book so why bother.
-
Here there's a jackal with a high-human
face. I sit up here, to better read well.
He has a sister too, and I once read her.
Boring stuff, and women writers always
seem somehow to miss their mark.
-
The shelves are kept full. I'll never
finish all this before Death hails my
knocker; but it's all OK. How much
of this stuff can one person take?
-
It's the ones who profess to an exactitude
perfect, those are the most bothersome. I
figure (between the lines), that you can profess
as hard as you wish but you should always
leave a way out. To extricate the damage once
it's found. The howls, and the wailing about.
-
I'll spend the rest of these days with my head
in a book. It's OK; everything's worth one
last look.
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