My Shakespeare has no spine — O, 'twas a brave old book, but too many times hefted, crack'd open, it tore away, nor is it back today.
My Iliad has no face — but lies uncovered, like the rubble of the ancient city, to the elements, to time and rampaging Greeks.
My Bukowski butt-ends, backless, like a road paved to the brink of an apropos drunken plunge into the abyss.
My paper Swift is gutless, unglued at the midpoint, minus "The Tale of a Tub." I keep it for its "Gulliver" and "Modest Proposal."
And soon enough, I myself will be cackling, toothless, over a few crumbling flitters of what might once have been a story.