I carry old poetry in my ebook.
I open Li-Po during long red lights.
Lao Tsu speaks on the benches in Carmel.
Jeffers complains about the many insincere visitors.
Oh, what it has become!
Hurried people pass me as I read.
“Maybe he is grieving over an old sad love letter”.
I open an entry from Holderlin to access feeling.
I see some of Rilke, some of Wordsworth, some of Amiel.
How they long to understand.
Ginsberg tears down my facade.
Tagore improves my inland structure
Traherne stirs me with the shiny infinite life.
Akhmatova brings me peacocks and old maps.
Borges tells me how to keep a love for words.
I feel flat and rotting when I set down what holds me.