He stands alone at the podium,
his horse voice [his joke]
become a paper whisperer
[ours]. He needs
to go on speaking, he says, despite
his throat. He will recite
his poems. Once read,
twice destroyed [no joke].
His mind is slowly sifting sentences from
the past in to a confrontation
with the future. So vivid is silence,
especially when in a shouting match
with an empty room. Too young to be a summary,
he must remain a part of the elaboration.