Biographies

In the university library tonight,
as you’d expect, it’s quiet
when I slide from the shelf the news
that Thomas Aquinas believed man
needs Divine help. As I read,
Aquinas walks with me among the stacks,
and tells me of his struggles.
After they detained him in San Giovanni,
his brothers brought a harlot to tempt him from his studies,
but he denounced her and remained pure. 
In parting, I commend him on his virtue,
his Aristotelian grace.
He shakes his head modestly.
I understand he means, What else was I to do? 
Around the corner,
I find Copernicus,
Prussian polymath, with his revolution
and epiphanies that brought stars
and planets to streets of
Krakow, Padua, Rome; celestial revolutions
that reached the ears
of Popes:  Earth is not at rest,
and objects of heaven
are notions, knowable here.
The student workers
are rolling up the rows with carts
so I bid him adieu and make a final sweep
for the night. There’s Gandhi,
and Hume, I know him, so much a slave
to my passions, here comes Jesus, I wave hello
before I pass Martin Luther
with his blistering invective and stinging protest.
I stop at Kant who whispers to me about
God, the soul, and freedom, yes, freedom, that’s my favorite, when
streetlights along Franklin Street swell in the Richmond sky
and soften like butter. I pause
and handle the heavy work of Ovid,
so I guess that means Theresa of Avila is somewhere down there
with her entreaty for prayer and self-restraint, 
but I’m not entirely listening anymore
to the chorus of tones and claims rising through history,
from precedent and the future, too,
because just beyond the court, there’s a man who doesn’t know
I couldn’t resist him tonight if he tried,
where gold light spins in globes of red wine,
and the music swims up through air. 
What I want to know is
who’s waiting for heaven, anyway,
and who’s a cleric here? Come on,
show me what’s at the center of the world,
who’s got a hot tip
on a trio playing bebop, who’s going to temple tomorrow
to more wholly resist what calls to him
in dreams, who’s this moment turning to reach for
the ripe briny oysters, and a slick salted rim?
Who’s going to let fall their desire
to wrap around a pang of denial and
who’s going home with me?