(Lattimore’s Iliad 1.1 )
A ream of cheap paper, I said to her,

you could sell me a ream of cheap paper.

The selfsame brand as pallets I have fed

into loud photocopying machines

when deforesting my way to the rent.

Pale as a promising relationship,

a film to be underwritten, that job;

the white manuscript takes off a blue dress,

curls back before the touch, offers up lips,

     “Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son…”