Find

Mind can’t make up its mind,

Nor the wind-up clock wind,

Nor the found object find.

All comes back on its selves,

Books returned to bookshelves.

As no star eternally burns,

We find all we will learn —

We’re just one eternal return.

Word

Sound and type are blurred

And the meaning is absurd.

Because it is only one word,

We can ignore it with impunity;

To do so might be no pity.

And yet, the only of its kind,

Without it language would be blind.

I cannot easily say it;

To try would betray it.

I don’t mean as in reveal,

But to render it less real.

It lies in its tomb,

A yellowed volume.

Unearthed, it will bloom.

Enigma

It. It? What is it at the source?

We can’t know it by stealth or force

Or guess at its speed or course.

Like one word buried in a book

(Moving like a trout in a brook

That will not rise to the eye,

That will not rise to the fly),

Read once and lost between covers,

It stymies the question — hovers

Just beyond comprehension,

Beyond time and dimension.

It depends on what you know

Less than water needs wind for snow

Or an arrow a broken bow.