Well, Lit

Dead literature tells tales.
Difficult sentences develop
the best in their prisoners.

Get to the end of each book,
by hook, gone crooked,
stuck in the lip of my walleye.

Pedant's pendant syllables 
sink long necks under
froth and vim and victors.

Vigorous analysis won't 
help you see spirit reams
any more clearly than those 
who read the ineffable
in every shimmer's leaf.

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