Informal proof of my illiteracy

When I prowl through a book
written anew by seventeenth-century
Englishmen terrified of each other’s plots,

I stutter over each verse, over the Hebrew
view of things: the universe in a singular tribe,
how prosperous Sodom educates the shuddering masses:

in a chapter (I read in the nude) on the patriarchs,
I remark, “May I pluck your beards, clean gentlemen,
and may I bury your deity in the edges of the desert?”

When I prowl through a book like this,
I ache rather to infiltrate its intricate follies—
I salivate over each page and know well the pages despise me.

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~ by Jeremy on June 27, 2013.

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