Now, I am a book going to print.
I write myself as myself I read.
My work weaves my days as pages,
And events therein, the bookmarks.

Come tomorrow's day thither-
Some words closer to the ******,
I shall think of past days' ink,
That lay dry in gross memory,
And wish some days ebbed-
And some others, rewritten.

If the final page comes forward,
Unbeknownst to me then-
I shall live by the little legacy,
In the journals of the reader.