poem: /lit/’s top 100 greatest books of all time

in her appeal there was a low-hanging, over
ripe fruit; I am reading a new book and I am
already bored. in my realization I am a child: I tell
my lover, men want to be God and women want
to be men, the rib infected us. for us, men are
God. in their appeal, a wide high cove, a circle of
rocks unbreached, the gulls scream. inside is
dry language with no psychological acuity, I want
to transform it: my own image. I do not
understand. female beaten out over the rocks or
I could intuit the highs and lows of linear meaning
and sentences, reading the book of essays on Victorian
literature with my feet tucked under the quilt,
the green kissing the yellow-green kissing the blue,
the dragonflies in spheres of gloss. the aesthetic/
the beauty is nice here, I play quiet god.