Eleven ancient tongues he will wield
Eleven ancient books he will read
And write eleven
In the confines of a hall,
The high wall covered with shelves
The silence unbroke
But for a rustle
And an old librarian
Coughing.

May the traders be courteous.
May the strong render him
Protection.
The woman,  
Their company.

Will come a friendless one,
Another day
And find among the hundreds,
Eleven books, untouched, un-wedged.
A clear vein, yellow, and flawless.
          
And I care two hoots for them
He'll say.
I care two hoots if I am.
I have seen the eleven.
I have dusted years off the leaves.
I have laid them upon my table
Face up
Dog eared.

And maybe many days he'd spend, picking the scholars grain.
Oh yes! He'd say. Oh yes! Oh yes! And read in the marginalia, a note on an unheard songster.
Wonder what the songs were like, the times, their city. Must have been friends surely, these two men…

And in the evenings,
Feeling each other's thighs,
Touching lips on park benches,
Lovers would watch him go by,
Laughing, talking to himself

next: winter