Long after you’ve read them, the scene
is still playing slothfully before your eyes.
A clear stage and a clever dialogue subtly hint
that something is wrong with the world.
A character is shown a long, slow mirror,
long enough to observe the folds in the
clothing or even count the number of lights
in the chandelier, precariously hung above him.
The story grows a beard, turns into a cape
follows you like a heroic shadow.
You ingest everything about it
so much that you wander in Wuthering Heights.
You tend to have Great Expectations about everything
leading to Pride first and then Prejudice.
Your adventures into wonderlands
end in abandonment in a lonely island.
You go through War and Peace and at every
turn of phrase, you expect Sense and Sensibility.
You call out for help to Emma and Anna but alas!
they’ve all left, without a word, with The woman in White.
You wonder about the balance in this Crime and punishment,
let out a sigh and suffer the Trial. Despite all this, you are
still Quixotic and dream of a Brave new world.