In the library

(like a poem from before

but less rhyming)

production in solitude

no noisy cats or barking dogs

I get the sense that I have not

done what you wanted

 

I think about parts

of some art that don’t

exist in poetry

like sequels

like covers, renditions

like remakes, adaptations.

Think of some for painting

in the library of all art.

 

I remember the light in the library,

sequences of relaxation.

Use your hands to climb the stairs.

These are running together now,

like we did, bad kids

who were fully adult.

I can’t write the sequel poem

but I remember the first time

I wrote this poem

about him in another library, of law

low to the basement ground.