Salute those who read the end of the book first.
They seek a reason to read.
This is the back of the book,
the mantle that is the crust.
Throw upon the weight,
the detritus of words and thought,
let them be sediment and the rest of us wash
that scribbles between the lines.
You who look for an index
are bound to be disappointed—
crumbs do not make a sandwich,
finding your way here was no coincidence.
What is the point of starting
if the end is not what you desire?
The brave page resists; a blank page
is not necessarily yours for the ink.


(and so ends “The World is s0 Poetic.” Tomorrow: Book #5)