The Cruellest Month

A Book in Seven Metaphors

A book is a vacuum cleaner that sucks
hours of your life cleanly away.

A book is baggage, packed with the dirty
shirts of strangers to try on for size.

A book is a raven and a writing desk,
disparate notions linked in a dream.

A book is a weapon, sharp and bright
and concealed in a scabbard of paper.

A book is a ladder with thousand-word rungs
you dizzily climb to a climax.

A book is a stuffing of lexical breadcrumbs,
greasy herbs and spices for the brain.

A book is that good friend who understands
if you leave them on the shelf for a while.











April 30—books or beyond them, or Buzz Lightyear (“To infinity, and beyond!”)