The Bookseller’s House
Chris Koza
A spectral form came down from the north
Through wandering sailors
The shipyards the bridges
And into the city square
She asked for the bookseller's house
Holding a guitar
A myrtle and rose-wreath
Set in her flowering hair
The summer moon lifted its veil
Shown on the pavement
The backyards and bushes
The ripening apples
White as wool the river at her back
She slipped through the fence
Of the bookseller's house
At the foot of the mountain
A golden arrow
Leading her bow
The wolves stand beside her
The feathers, she lets go
An apple
Placed on top of the head
Is split
In two
The sky may be falling
The ground may be sinking
The pages are filling
The story keeps spinning