Bookshelves Poem by Percy Quillwort
Bookshelves
They scattered on an empty street
Pages blowing like leaves
Rustling
(rustling)
With my soda in hand,
with my soda in Hand,
I look at the butcher shop and see my favorite ham (Elmer)
A caterpillar scoots roughly through the moonlit turf
I pause to contemplate its burly grace
(like a slickly oiled Russian lumberjack)
An avalanche of glass beads stream
down my face,
down my neck,
and
stick to my
nipples
nipples of the damned
and then I didn’t.
Bookshelves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/24/2024 9:32:52 PM # 1.0.0.1119
This transcends genre and worldly culture. I almost felt the glass beads trickling down my nipples and the night air. The poem does take place at night, doesn't it? I could feel the cold night wind on my nips. It was really an evocative poem. Thank you for this.