The plays of Plautus all repose in peace
next to my boyhood’s tattered Tarzan books,
University classes, and summer days.
I suppose Mercury brought his own vines.

Kafka is up against Rilke and Parzival;
they seem to get along with each other.
Cavafy and Plath talk out their issues,
as do Hammarskjold and Dostoyevsky.

I mean to organize my books someday,
but Thoreau suggests I go fishing instead.