Hoping to Cease Not Till Death

There are millions of suns left,
Seen through the eyes of the dead,
Warming the specters in books.

To do the impossible,
Poetic Archimedes,
Looking for a place to stand

Where words could leverage you
Back into the wordless world,
Appreciation intact,

Becomes one of the specters,
Among the living specters,
Not just the words on the page,

But an old man’s memory
Of first encountering them
As a young man desperate

To get beyond the meaning
Of poems, reading, re-reading
Memorizing quotations,

Eventually teaching
And then, at thirty-seven,
Leaving them behind. For then.

To listen to other sides,
If not all sides, of specters,
The origin of all poems.