Do you believe that pressed flowers between,

The yellow pages of these scripted books,

They speak to me with child-like, verdant grins

Of all their rolling fields and laughing brooks?

 

They whispered as I sought to author-write:

“What polemic provocations did you find?”

“What was the intervention sought?”

“How did you interpret these lines?”

 

And this had made me capable to lay:

  1. Down my pen:
    1. creation, 
    2. mouse-trap; 
    3. lie; and

Then myself among legal bouquets, for the reader-learner in me arose returned, when the author-writer died.

 

For what is Law but open-ended art? What are these papers but the wanderer’s start? What are your in-class answers but a poem? Who am I, have I read him?