Books and Blame

It
is scuffed, well read
But over this, my embarrassed thank you.
Why do *you* do this?

This
book is loved, though not Masefield.
At thirteen, this is what impassions me --
Not some clever wordful trickery.
Deposited on a shelf.

And
then a pattern emerges:
Borrowed a book from a teacher: gasses himself.
Borrowed a book from a stranger: hangs himself.
To leave me books and blame.

And
blame yellows on the shelf
Fifteen years waiting, almost ebayed
But that lingering guilt anchoring
Until an interest sparks again.

And
now, Ashbery's verses fascinate
Not least by the honour silently passed
Holding poems so treasured, finally released
A ghost of a stranger fulfilled.