Today's Bestseller

Days are no more than short books Illustrated by the words you print. He thinks this, as the sun falls Slowly on the old nooks Of his bedside table, wooden lint Sewn still for no other use Than the parading abuse Of old mint packets, crisp packets laden With the guilt of a knowing writer, afraid then That he is writing a tragedy. It's something he can't explain, nor name, A break-up battered, broken this way Letters of then, letters that may And the letters of now, of here, Today.