LIKE Aristophanes and
Shakespeare—
my concrete comrades,
I stand infallible,
age-old yet frozen
in youth
only centuries can confer.
I am baptized
by javelins of twilight
before being
swallowed
by the sea of students
who’ve come
not for me.
I envy Aristotle
and Saint Augustine,
who unlike
I, do not
know solitude
that roll with
the turn of decades.
My body
echoes
the cool of the night—
disregarding
radiant heat
from languid
neighboring lights.
Could this be,
Plato’s brand
of melancholy—
not that of knowing
you are sad
but that of remembering
you are alone?
