I didn't think I wanted that book
but it turned out it was really a book I wanted
and when I figured out I could get it pretty easily
I went and did that.
The book was written by a person,
who knows who, some guy,
a person seemingly good but who knows really,
a guy who'd come somehow anyway to be of uncommon concern to me.
Calle Donceles: a whole street of bookstores, complete sets of Lenin in Castilian translation, cheap. This was before I'd returned to Moldova; my bike was in good trim, lanky-framed & tight. I mounted it and sailed through the Zócalo: think of me, when I was young! A powerful black Raleigh, fixie-rigged, my long legs driving, my smile flies on ahead of my head, ahead of my face, flies on, eager eyes, flies to the anticipated pages of the anticipated book!