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
