If books were people I’d keep me closed,
A done tale is a safe one.
A done tale doesn’t bite.
This dovetails nice with my fear of foes –
The fierce fishmoth (both bug and fish?)
And the termite’s mighty blight.
I must protect my poemy prose
By trusting that no one can fight
A thing that no one knows.
Indeed I’d be forever closed
If need – yes need! – however slight,
Of knowing where the next tale goes
Had not been so polite as to impose.
But for that, I suppose,
I’d be forever closed.