Lyrscriben

The Word

From within the convoluted mass,
Under the thatched dome,
And behind the aqueous lights,
Across the untraceable connections,
Through routes with bridges,
And those with bridges out,
Madly scavenging backyards,
Multiple cellars,
And seldom climbed attics,
Grabbing, thumping, tossing the discard out,
until the exasperated tailings
Mount like the minds bulk
To locate
A singular word,
Not the perfect word,
But the only word
When harped and bowed by the tongue
Will dance with its neighbors.