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Memoir, novel, biography—
When seeing them piled up or shelved,
It can come as a shock to think

Of what strange productions books are—
Industrial, commodified,
Capitalist, fine, yes—but odd

In having, most of them, authors,
Each text the lonely production
Of someone’s long hours composing—

This book by so-and-so, this book
By that other one, the good one,
The sad one, the anonymous

Except for this book’s nom-de-plume—
Suicide, drunk, misogynist,
Scholar, penny-whistle player,

Amateur opera singer,
Bestseller, winner of prizes,
One-hit wonder, without a trace—

Person, person, person who wrote
This book, put this text together—
Heaps, stacks, and shelves of such persons—

Each book with its own name on it,
The books as tokens for the lives,
The singular lives that wrote them.