Walls have been assembled, and cities, on the stitching
of language-born ideas, the well-woven words of Orwell
Kafka, Hawthorne, and Ray Bradbury
Bradbury, who so often mused about his favorites
George Bernard Shaw and Herman Melville
Bradbury, who kept me company in the October
public park of my chosen abandonment, rendering
impressions of melancholy dinosaurs from the deep
Edgar Allan hides in the corner, eyes pearl and huge
Kafka, who imagined life as a bug, like J. Alfred
pinned to the wall in the room full of women
travelers to the better locations, prophets of prose.
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