A house without books, is like several looks
At where the hands on a clock-face
Show more than 12 hours in a row,
Endless hours where the mind withers
And the words you don’t read have no
Perch or vine or place to put in roots.
No frame to place around an Old Master,
solid marble waiting in untouched blocks
For the sharp hit of a chisel tip;
Nothing at all but a looseleaf notebook
With empty pages where ink never took.