A person can certainly learn
how to fish;
or they can simply keep returning
and stammering out in
the same mystic river.
Perhaps to make sense
is to be useful in other contexts,
whereas nonsense
never changes, but can always
be revisited.
There's a kind of satisfaction
which exists
only in this—
like a confident poem, with no
outside applications.
At least on occasion,
is there not
tremendous relief
in a thought
which is terse, but which comes
with no substitute?
For once,
can we not just enjoy
our loss?
