Born at 40, he
lived his life backwards.
The man inside
the solemn child
was always occupied
by mortality.
He typed out his
index cards neatly
blew out poems
like smoke rings.
He wore no
welder’s mask but a cardigan.
Was this the
way for a man to live?
Certainly, his
life’s work was weightless
the inside
out life of a librarian.
What other way
was there?
That was
always his question.
He
interrogated with each metaphor
life glimpsed
through windows
the
preoccupations of humans
specks of
bright dust, suspended in air.
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