Dave Bonta begins with a blunt question: what use are books to a scholar who is going blind? The poem answers by comparing his library to the cave paintings at Lascaux, full of meaning that can no longer be read. The speaker then recalls a time when he lent the scholar his eyes, reading aloud for a paper the older man had to give.
The feeling here is quiet unease. The speaker felt "of little use, a cheap fiction," and his West Coast accent seemed to flatten words the scholar loved, like swapping a fine leather binding for a paperback. The ending is the most unsettling part. The speaker wonders whether the scholar sensed something in his youthful breath, a "germ" as corrosive as hope. The poem suggests that helping can also be a kind of intrusion, and that youth may carry its own loss. The mood is reflective, tender, and a little guilty.