Brilliant and crowded are the kingdoms on the

Shelf; many the written versions of the self.


The child I was lived in the stories people

Tell, wandered through many kingdoms, loved them

Well, grieved like a pauper, nose against the

Glass, because no one could read all, even

Reading fast.  Then one day found no matter

What the name all books are only volumes of the

Same, and all the many versions on the shelf

Tell the same story.  Whether prose or rhyme,

It is a story she knew all the time.