I had an idea,
but I didn't write it down.

And if I didn't write it down,
then did it ever actually exist in the first place?

and if it didn't exist in the first place,
how could I have had it?

and if I never had it,
then where did it come from?

Before the wind wounded me.

Before my petals broke.

Before my roots withered.

Before the cold silenced me.

I was a flower.

Now I am nothing.

I am a mild man, you'll agree,
But red my rage is,
When folks who borrow books from me
Turn down their pages.

Or when a chap a book I lend,
And find he's loaned it
Without permission to a friend -
As if he owned it.

But worst of all I hate those crooks
(May hell-fires burn them!)
Who beg the loan of cherished books
And don't return them.

My books are tendrils of myself
No shears can sever . . .
May he who rapes one from its shelf
Be ****** forever.