On An Old Poem

I read a poem yesterday An old poem By a poet preparing to past away It unravels threads In my spirits well seamed hem I am huanted By why she had to say I would go back and read It to myself again, But may not find the path From which I fled Shaking like a child Before its quaking dread. Was it the calmness Of the preparation The suddeness Of my intrusion The awareness of the desperation That life is a pen We write nothing with And imprisoned by it So long We are strangers In our ultimate world? I appraised a poem Yesterday, a sad poem Words wheeling lariats Around my bed, haunted Now by a voice I hear But do not know Casting me in nakedness To stand, and face my fear.