tiny explosions sent him reeling from his workshop
pleased with himself at first
but later distraught at the coarseness
of his efforts
later he took to arranging stones
polishing late into the night
and agonizing over the placement
of each pebble
which he could never get right
when his first book of verse came out
the faint grey typeface on the
homemade papers of blue and green
and subtle hints between
made it arduous upon the eye
so he took to beachcombing
scouring the shore for nothing
that would satisfy
until someone asked him why
and what did he hope to find
why love of course
are you blind?
but love cannot be found
and I’ll be bound never shall
love will find you
or you spend your whole life through
without it
then I shall capture starlight
in a jar
the careworn qualities
of my heart
the peacock’s cry
within a book
the way the moonlight looks
on a desolate shore
and nothing more
nothing more