Letters

Letters scrawled on the back of a dead man's book
must perhaps look like what we write today in feverish bouts
of the cryptologies of our diaries.
The secret alleys and groves we sought
as our hiding places,
the signs and symbols we invented
to evade scrutiny and preserve the essence
from being violated and drowned
in the invasion of the excesses of language and the fury of gestures,
and in that process opening new windows upon the sky;
All of these will acquire a meaning tomorrow
not known today, hidden as it is under the shroud of our anxiety to hide even from our own self
that which we never fully understood.