Sometimes

it takes me decades

to open a book I've acquired

I sense the importance

inherent

between the covers

when I buy it,

though I'm separated from it

by maybe fifteen years of maturing

I store it

up on the shelf,

hear it mumbling

to itself

through many a windy night,

snow creeping across the windows,

the blanket heavy on my skin,

the skin tight around my body

Then, one morning late in March 2022,

traveling through the frontier lands

of my seventy-fourth year,

I notice a book vibrating suspiciously,

and pull it out;

Philip Whalen's Collected Poems,

the Rothenberg edit,

and realize we have merged,

the book and I,

for the opening of a powerful co-operative reading

as spring winds gust

around this think tank house

of my southern retreat;

a rumble on the infra level

rising out of the wind grappling

with the concrete constructions

of the habitats of human beings

lost in thought,

the bright blue eyes

of Anemone hepaticas shining

through yesteryear's leaves

by the bike path into town

I used to sit in front of the speakers,

playing ”fucking loud”,

but now I prefer to have the music reach me

from another room,

like wildwife Anna calling:

”Wanna go for a walk?”