For you, you, whoever, wherever you are
in time to come, in a year or in fifty­­
who have grabbed me, found me on the cluttered bookstall
and gone, book clutched in your hand, or stuffed in pocket,
to the near café or steaming snack bar


and over the pie and coffee opened up the pages­­
for you, quiet girl, young man,
in the youth of your life, who read some pieces
then turn to your own thoughts, your emotions
and write your eight lines, or fifty­­
yes! yes! I would arouse in you
the spectral nerve
sweet as sex, for this craft­­
its breath of life wafted out and recorded
that it may be such a stir one time, for you