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And this poem is about
simply the desire to write.

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I mean, this sort of
very private desire

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to be remembered, not to
be entirely forgotten.

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To leave something
behind and it endures, I

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guess that's a primary desire.

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But it's also a
[INAUDIBLE] desire

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to remember other
things, and keep things

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you admire alive as well.

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"Fear of the Dark."

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Fear of the dark stays
with me, but not the shame.

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And the worry that my story
won't reach the light where

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other stories wait and
be understood no longer

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seems a weakness
I should overcome.

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So what if it does to others?

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To the few who require
only themselves

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to fill their theaters.

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For them, it's a
mystery why even

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a Hamlet, no lover of the world,
is anxious, dying for the world

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to get the facts right

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and makes Horatio promise
to retell the play;

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why even the dead
in hell cry out

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to Dante to carry
their stories back,

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why Dante, banished
from Florence, promises.

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No need for anyone who
doesn't ask to be heard,

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to hear the dead of Sodom
crying for an audience.

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Though it's likely some good
men died in that fire, fathers

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to widows and orphans,
friends to the poor.

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After the ashes
settled, the scribes

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blackened the name
of the charred walls

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to keep God's name pure.

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It won't be easy to say enough,
to get those ghosts to rest

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in the dark as Troy
rests, its ashes

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content with Homer's account
of its long war and fiery fall.

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Beautiful Troy, city
beloved of Zeus,

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whose altars day and night
smoked with offerings.

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Could you lower--