In Different Voices

If time cannot be traced with compasses
Or measured beneath a looking-glass,
Then I exist outside this present, with shadows
Beckoning, further than suburban lanes.

Whenever Dutch peasants gathered, over
Bacon, potatoes, and limitless black coffee—
Among ink-stained hands on Paternoster Row,
Who misspell Shakespeare's words,

So I lived, through destinations, wayward
And beyond sense, as a blind librarian's verse—
Which cannot be definitely saved, but still
I preserve this blossom, between two leaves.