My books stare at me in dusty derision
Doubling with a tongue biting sarcasm.

Books are mortal like parts of a body
Some die away before whole will die.

Alice is inside to fall in a rabbit hole
But her frontispiece is gone to wind.

Like a front teeth gap in the old face
Hissing with the harsh winter breeze.

Silver fish swim in rivers of my books.
I let them , with years of guilt inside.

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