This is called "Reading History."
This is a library.
I spent probably years in libraries
reading all sorts of things.
And I love libraries and have a number
of poems about libraries, but here's
one called "Reading History," dedicated to the German poet,
who is still alive.
He's quite old, Hans Mangus Enzensberger.
At times reading here in the library,
I'm given a glimpse of those condemned to death centuries
ago and of their executioners.
I see each pale face before me, the way a judge pronouncing
a sentence would, marveling at the thought
that I do not exist yet.
With eyes closed I can hear the evening birds.
Soon there will be quiet, and the final light on Earth
will commence in the fullness of its sorrow.
How vast, dark and impenetrable are the early-morning skies
of those left to their death in a world from which I'm
entirely absent.
But I can still watch someone slump back.
Someone who is walking away from me with his hands high,
his gray head still on his shoulders,
someone who knew what little remains of his life,
knows in some vague way about me, and thinks of me as God,
as the devil.