How in love I was with your world,
the way it floated above the merely real,
the lattice-work elaborate and dense
while I sat on the floor in the library stacks,
thinking I was breathing in
knowledge along with the dust motes,
running my palms down the fading spines,
building theories so brilliant
they sang like crystal.
How I flushed with gratitude
that you noticed how hard I tried,
how well I did,
that you encouraged me
with a comrade’s praise and hints
of collaboration, a fatherly arm
around my shoulders
as I stepped over the threshold
to learn a new lesson,
that your world of pure interpretation
had a body after all,
and even though I’ve kept all your books,
I know that if I open them now,
the pages will have turned to dust.
