The book is slow and reads as though
he paced the room
and had his secretary write
the words he spoke
A legal brief, a dictaphone
And then my eyes were lifted by
the mortal slap, the screeching tires

I'd rather read this book than take a look

The dead can speak in books and charm
the lives of abject souls like mine
A strangers death cannot deliver
love, or truth, or anything but shock

I sat down and cried
Henry James can't lie

If E.M. Forester loved this book
enjoyed, endorsed the time it took
to read the book, I'll sit and read
and mute the scene I saw
in spite of what I said
Her crooked nose, her yawning mouth,
Her pantyhose
The pubic bone, the shattered glass,
The smell of gas

Her grocery bags are scattered by my feet
Just get up and leave