Seated curiously between the stacks,
wistfully I consider this or that volumne
and what their words have been to me.
Chapters of limmerent longing
are pressed in black sackcloth bindings.
The gold leaf titles on each spine
seem familiar or not according to their age
but then a fond passage begs attention
and I remember in the re-reading
the passions that I used to nurture.
Here on this furthest shelf
awaits the catalogs of all my losses.
I take down the undusted tome
and with well rehearsed reverence
open the annals of my anguish.
In the calligraphy of my own hand
your name is inscribed like all the others
that adorn these now brittle pages.
I leave you within the covers I close,
like Kubla Khan, a thought disrupted,
lost in a knock at the door.
About the Poem
This poem takes a pensive visit back through the part of personal history where the memory of loves lost are waiting to be recalled.
This poem is unpublished in print. It was completed in 1984.