No comprehension how the lone survivor
can be ignorance, how the ten-second commercial
can sell coconuts, how a fish-bone rapscallion
can curdle the milk and make the honey lament—
it would seem the sought-after rune, the one
cognitive gem that links letter to letter,
would be doggèd and lovely, have the precision of a grape,
the mainspring of an opal, the breechblock of a spoon.
The chasm is filled with a large whiskey eruption,
a Jack Daniel's device that dribbles swill on the booths,
the lone scarab, the resurrection of water,
fossilized in amber—a shibboleth of concordance
that marks twain on the floors of the once living,
the boy-blood on the news that is eulogized and lost.