Sympathy is what I feel, I think, as I peruse
this inexhaustible procession, which staid, which silent, despite its verbosity,
seems waiting for someone, or something, perhaps a me,
or some kind of mechanical pontificator, to sound out the ee’s and the oh’s,
waiting to be utilized, not merely as a part of the grid for simplistic communication,
but alive but dancing, jumping-jack beans right off the page,
its etymologies not merely settings on a stone, nor hieroglyphic motifs,
indiscernible beyond interpretation, underground passageways
like pyramids of undiscovered tombs;
but waiting, waiting, for the grave robber’s shovel;
(O lucky word!)
for the poetic archeologist to distinguish its inherent beauty
and pluck it out
like a newly hybridized rose for all the world to acclaim