In search of the world I delved determinedly
in his bookcase and chose with much care paid
to weight and scent – paper and layout were
also of importance. I read with a young hunger
and desire, followed the tracks he here and there
left behind in pencil. And then he died and
the book and I, we survived. In what is still royal-blue
ink I refind today on the flyleaf his writing
just name and date, but in my mind’s eye see before me
the young man on what was his twenty-eighth birthday
and who of me, his future son, as yet had no inkling.
Like some meteorite from earlier warmer times
this father’s book now rests here scorching in a hand
that has already begun to resemble his.