His shoulders are square;
But they are not shoulders.
They are the sharp corners
Of heavily bound volumes
Whose covers are pristine.
His hair is voluminous;
But it is not hair.
It is simply a volume
laying spread eagle
Letting its pages fly freely.
His posture is perfect
But he is not human.
He is simply a stack;
The only spine he has
Belongs to a book.
He is not a man.
He is a pile of books,
Words on pages,
Unable to move,
But not unmoving.
