Portrait of the Artist in a Distant Graveyard

I have this idea that
One day I might read Ulysses.
It’s all sunbleached and peeling,
Like anything you’ve carried with you
Since you were sixteen. But
There’s this spark of recognition
That keeps saving it from joyless exile,
A thought this box wasn’t meant for but
Still only fits here–Imagine
Pinning your soul to paper, saying look,
Only for the world to speak in awe
Of understanding you as the mental mount everest,
Too far off to read the words. I don’t know
How I got up here, alone with
Ghosts like Joyce. The air
Has always been this thin.