Hurr hurr, I have not completed that neato little policy box thing, so I can spend the space here for emotive poetry. Like this:
It was like pomegranate juice that stained
your lips, tart like human flesh and Aeschylus is writing --
it's her flesh that's so tart, raw and bloody
your mouth leaves a stain and it is all a stain
the way your hands leave prints like a press and
this is the only book that has ever mattered.
And you have written it and read it and bent the spine backward
until it lies worn and loved in your hands, and broken;
and that is the way things are.
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