What had melted into the wall

During the day I listened to Leonard Cohen
At night I read Lit Crit. Sylvia Plath and,er,Sylvia Plath, and,er Sylvia Plath,Daddyeee!
I saw Eliezer a Cohen young and old and everywhere in between and his smile and his eyes.
His fear and his courtesy
I read Sylvia in language of Lacan, Rose,Derrida
I had no idea what they meant
At the time.
Maybe it went to another place
Then one night,I got into bed and I read nothing.
It was over.
I sang all of Joan of Arc myself  and included Jennifer Warne’s    gestures full of feeling
Then I fell asleep.
I knew what had melted into the wall.
And what was still here.
There was me.