She’s only been into books
with unicorns extinct, has
not out of books
found a derived life
inspired wild, riding
the instinct horses
of the apocalypse, has

not even hid her feelings
in a Trojan horse waiting
to gallivant between
the sleeping
harmless fools, because
she fears they’ll pop like
Jack-in-the-Boxes of childhood, has

not joined with her fellow Trojans in the
ballyhoo of victory nor has she been
to the Bali she read about, only has

exotic things in her mind that
never leave the leaves of the houseplant
engrossed in potted plots lit
by the light bulb and read
by buried tulips prettier than
two lips pursed in thoughts
as lonely as fallen nights
—Douglas Gilbert

Books by Douglas Gilbert