Pantoum, or Closet anarchist

The spines are rising on my shelves

And I can’t fathom the eyestrain

Vacuuming complete cooled texts, 

Refrigerated voices sealed between covers

If literature reaps lasting brain

Damage then I’m a pseudo masochist 

And still the stacks swell as engorged lovers

And still my spine pinches toward Earth

This is the trail of a closet anarchist—

Sip your brew and to yourself flex 

Time in which you honor your birth,

Your mother, books who bleach yourselves.