a slow reader

The book I slept on, literally,
talks about late modernist poetics.
Jung, Olson, and the problematics of reading
Olson with a deconstructive point of view
put me into sleep quickly,
my face on my hands on the pages
of long sentences, ever turning
in their pretentious philosophical tone.
What drove me to this corner of the library,
exploring, in vain, the canonical names
as boring and dark as the sky of this rainy Seattle day?
The endless struggle with Chapter 2
is paralyzing indeed, "a nightmare from which
I'm trying to awake."
That's "history" in the words of Stephen Daedalus,
and I, I'm only a slow depressive reader
in a black coat, forever distracted
by the already gone fall colors outside.