The Well-Read Man

         This appeared in Poetry Bus.

Teach me no more. I know enough.
Of Dis and that and other stuff
Found on these pages no one's read
But dead descendants of the dead,
I've made myself a treasure hoard,
Dust like an asthma of the word.
Ceres does not search for me.
She does not call and cannot see
I bear seeds, too, and I should plant
Green fields in volume; but I can't.
The shelves are brown; the air is sere,
No months there and twelve months here.