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01/12/09 - (2)
Contemplating Literary Immortality
This mid-January, nighttime kneels down, at the altar, To pray for the safety of my old age's passage Between Scylla and Charybdis, As though I were Odysseus metamorphosed into Moses, Recently arrived from my ancestral Kiev, Rather than just another tatterdemalion bum Groping through dumpster garbage, to survive.
Before this supplicant evening rises from its knees, I intend to read it every one of my ten thousand poems, Hoping to ensure my cold, lonely soul A warm spot in the heart of night's dark being, So that I might be at least a footnote To the immemorial history of its illuminated literature, Until morning forces me to grope, again, for life.
01/12/09 - (2)
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