The Poem

FOR whom, then, was the poem written?
For whom did the work-lamp glow
Late in the night while all men lay in the grip of sleep
Save those nocturnal riders who roared through the street below
The silent room? For whom was the brow smitten
And the hair tunneled with fingers? Who will keep
Among old letters, or bits of string, this page?

What had the living to do with this recorded crisis of a mind?
He not occupied in fashioning his own defeat
Was a child playing at games, or with some mystery.
The poem was a letter sent to a hermit unattended, blind.

And who will read when, crisp after rain and sallow with age,
This paper will whisper along a windy street,
And sail on invisible wings above a leafless tree
That time when, invading empty houses, winter comes
And mice tenant the dwellings quiet and void of heat,
And birds light on the window ledge to find no crumbs?