On Stuart Dybek's "Nighthawks"

So this was my sacred text?
My own personal Torah?
This world of stark,
dark images cradling
a kernel of hope.

How the years change a man.

This is why I wrote. I wanted
people to feel the way I felt
when I opened this story.

The goosebumps, the anticipation.

Wanting each image to last,
propelled to the next.
The world dissolved, diluted.
The story pulled my attention
deeper and deeper.

With age comes wisdom,
with age goes excitement.
The words footsteps on dry grass.
Images conjure my to-do list.

I once feared writing in the margins
now scrawled the embittered
scratch of a man once removed.

A resignation, of sorts: This life isn't me.