Tyrant stains within the spaces of my fingers;
If you will take a ship from my wrist to these,
Astrologers will sing ‘no’ in a chorus
for my market value was next to none
and the production cost alone took a small library or a two.

Turmeric thumb—
snap like the summon of a magician,
I tainted my books
With a strand of myself into immortality;
Drenched—
it rains upon the hardcover of my Homer,
I’m lost at the sea.