GRAY LADY
Abstracted
in the stacks,
where time
disintegrates
old news,
I won’t volunteer
to tend
the ghosts
of headlines,
rustling,
as they do,
a shade
too quietly,
even here.
Instead,
my researches
will brew
fresh happenings.
Clipped
with severe,
short strokes,
these serifed
shapes
will braid
the notes
for novels
that I’ll stew
from almanacs,
obituaries,
the want ads’
misspelled
inquiries.
I’ll sieve
the sparkle
from human
interest,
the mad
percussion
of the war
reports.
The fastest
way (but
not
the simplest)
to write
is to distort
the veil
between
homage
and theft.
Nothing’s new
beneath
the sun,
but deft
reweavings
can gleam
as near
as makes
no difference.
Hand me now
my shears—
I flex them
to the music
of the spheres.
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