Driftless, sitting in my study, reading
Spines of books which once were poorly pleading
To be known—now known—have got me mealing
On a thread, through centuries, now leading.

I, the Iliad’s Unknown Reader, laid it
Horizontal, strident verséd, weighed it
Then alongside Shakespeare, pithy stated,
On the shelf upright, perhaps to grade it.

Soon comes Pound to bring us back to singing;
Soon my email, and my doorbell ringing.
Words and sounds, a street-side car is banging
Odes to love and hymns of hate, unclinging.

Is it nothing but a pointless ranking
Of our moment in a cycle cranking
Endlessly? Or does a larger spanning
Wheel contain a nuance worth our thanking?

Repeat.