notebook (untitled fragment): c 1987

After the accusations for wasting time
After the conclusion that the poems were forgeries
After the years of worry
After the rejections by art museums
After the bounced checks of the collectors
After the armsfull of insect bites
After the outrageous outmoding of freedoms
After the dizzying ascent of repetitions
After the glorification of mathematical originality
After the recommendations of brevity and the mayoral citations
That continue dawn after dawn into the unheralded encyclopedias
After the descent into the past to search for editorial commentaries
After the insignias of printers and the imprimaturs of publishers
After the confusion of bells and the small litter in stuck drawers
We shall still read them
We shall still remember their voices
Which grunted with pleasure in spite of the mistakes
Which begged for confirmation
Despite many proclamations to the contrary.
There are years inside their expressions,
There are so many feelings of relief
Whenever anybody remembers to print their names
On the flyleafs.
This may be the December of time,
These may be the last days of gazelles,
This may be the dessication of caring,
The last leaves quietly collecting
On the rich earth of ancient books.
Yet we are among them
We are the ones who can no longer think
We are the shadows and the skulls
Of all that longing.