Thursday, April 8, 2021


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?