Poem
The hand will cradle the face,
as once the arms of others
cradled the buttocks. Imagine it,
he has come to a small room of his life.
It is bare. There is no sound, Imagine a
room of a library, during the after hours.
And he sits down at one table. And
he has no books? No. He sits down
at a bare table, among books.
And he puts his face down in his hands,
and holds himself, He has not come
to read? No.
—Greg Kuzma
—found in Concerning Poetry (Fall 1975; Vol. 8, No. 2)