Photo of Melville; Back Room, Old Bookstore

I passed him by at first. From the photograph Peered sepia eyes, blindered, unappeased From a lair of brows and beard: one not amazed At anything, as if to have looked enough Then turned aside worked best for him—as if Night vision was the discipline that eased The weight of what he saw. A man’s gaze posed Too long in the sun goes blank; comes to grief. That face could be a focus for this back room, For pack-rat papers strewn as if in rage, Fond notes unread: each wary eye a phial Unstopped to let huge Melville out, to calm The sea of pages; Melville in older age: The grown man’s sleepy defiance of denial.