Oh, that’s sympatico, I think, I think I feel, as I peruse,
this inexhaustible procession, that staid, this silent tome,
which despite verbile, verbose, it seems to wait
for some sort of mechanical pontificate, to sound out its ee’s and oo’s,
right-ready to be utilized, not merely as part of the grid,
but alive and a-dance, a jumping-jack bean bounty right off of the page,
its etymologies not mere settings on the stone, nor ancient, like hieroglyphic motifs,
indiscernible, beyond interpretation, underground passageways
whole pyramids of undiscovered tombs;
but waiting, wooing, for the grave robber’s shovel;
(O lucky word!)
for the poetic archeologist to distinguish its inherent beauty
and pluck it out, for all the world to acclaim,
like some newly hybridized rose.