bound to happen,
the bookcase falling over on me,
too heavy
with books
and magazines,
newspapers,
journals.
the weight of it was too much.
the screws
came out
of the wall, the boards
collapsed,
the letters of John Cheever
were on
my chest,
Salinger and Joyce Carol Oates
smothering
me with words,
daggers of Plath's poems,
stabbing
at my ribs,
the Diary of Anne Frank,
Updike's trilogy
of Rabbit
against my leg.
a box of redacted love letters
scattered
everywhere.
the collected poems of
Robert Frost
leaving a bump on my head.
the last
book to tumble,
Ulysses, impossible to read,
would be my death.
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