A dilettante ate leaves of poems,
ingesting thick, delicious tomes.
So much he ate, he spun a web
and fell asleep like he was dead.
No one knows of what he dreamed—
whether rhyming or 'vers libre'.
For months he lay within that crypt,
(dreaming up a manuscript?)
And when Spring came, he gnawed a door,
and out he flew—a connoisseur.
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/metamorphosis-4/
