We approached from the other side of the campus,
walking the length of the Student Union and out its other side,
down a few steps and through the Main Library's doors.

Sitting at a hard wooden table, surrounded by two floors of books,
two heavy cardboard boxes appeared on a cart nearby.

Light brown labeled folders leaned against each other:
letters from colleagues and friends; pages of forgotten writing,
manuscripts reworked later into other genres,
some with alternative titles;
the notes I scribbled, feverish and alone
in a cold farmhouse in the mountains of northern Japan,
not expecting to survive the night—

all in the archive of an old poet still dreaming
of becoming a poet.