(in memoriam P.S.R.)
On your way out, you made a lot of notes
and fixed them to the blue walls of your room.
Disorder too proceeds by asymptotes,
and little daily losses spell our doom.
On the envisioned future we presume
too often, and it always turns away.
We look for cover in affected gloom.
In empty lecture halls, we have our say.
That’s why the quiet game you chose to play
against your dissolution was a burst
of brilliance in the fog’s advancing gray.
Chaos talked tough. You got your licks in first.
Your notes were fiercer than the noonday sun.
I never dared to read a single one.