I have this black and sacred book
Spanning the years like an
On opening it, I cast a look
At ideas all set in tidal motion
Drifting out on ebbs of suggestion,
When each day opens like a question
This is the vessel of my want,
The assembled trove of all my
The treasured source of all détente,
When the Muse offers nothing and sneers.
These are my words, yet tied to shore –
Unless I can make of them something more.
I adore this chaos, this disorder:
This revelation that oceans
have no border.