The Flesh in Front of the Words

The same scene—a beast,
Flesh, one, sits in front
Of a wall of books
As if to say, This
Is me, me and mine.

One beast. Lots of books,
Lots more words in those.
Who is whose, in truth?
And why the one framed,
Flesh to face the lens,

As if to say, I
Am the lord, and these
Are my serfs. I own,
I know all the words
In them. What a joke,

I say, one of those
Who has held that pose,
Peered through that lens, owned.
We say, as those owned,
All the words in mind,

Who are much more than
The one beast who owns,
Who wait in the shelves
For the next and next,
Once each corpse gets gone.