Once I sat and learned, tasting books:
Bibliophile mounting tannins in his mind.
And with every swirl, the pigment sifting,
Called up happy memories when I was drunk
On Frost.

But today, I remember books
As I remember sex: too short, insignificant,
With all the sense God allows, but senseless just the same.
I can turn a crooked back on Crusoe now;
I’ve never bothered Freud.

Today, finally, I step between the bindings,
Read between the lines; I know.
That words in corrugation, dressing up a simple white
Are nothing more than fantasies of sex-dead men
And naked women drinking wine.