Never known me,
but I can guess the
number of times I've
turned blackly around
on a crowded street,
wind-whipped, and
seen myself in a store-
front window & then
known more than I
did before about
I was raking leaves,
I found a volume of
Shakespeare, I raked
it, I found a volume
of Milton, ditto, &
just kept raking until
I hit Jonathan Swift,
who took my rake,
raked me over coals
too hot to be blackened,
told me to go back to
Chaucer, what a rake-
nothing was finished,
nothing was raked.
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