Lepus Superaggerus

The old novelist who

lived down the street,

he played golf and

smoked and read books

by Chesterton and Barth,

and, like straw, he spun

words into words, and

then one day he died.

And now in the little

bookshop down the hill

there is a shelf that

lifts and carries only

words that he wrote

while drinking whiskey
in these woods by the beach.