A novel opened its mouth to speak
but yawned too wide and swallowed a man
who found himself lost in a forest of Times
New Roman, and a plot that involved something lupine.
Lowercase 12 pt was bad, but paragraph spaces
were acres of moonlight. He cowered behind capitals,
assessing the dark archipelago of chapters.
Pages were days. Numbers were stepping-stones.
In various order, he lived every word many times over
before he made for the door/wall marked The End
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Peter Wallis
would be pleased to hear them.