This poem has been seduced by so many words.
It has bent prostrate before their altar,
Then found itself abandoned in their sanctuary.
You won’t find a path into this poem between the letters,
Nor in reverberating phoneme echoes.
These spaces are not a labyrinth path.
These marks are not patterans
or hobo hieroglyphs.
They are false sign posts built to mislead.
The fact is, this poem is not so accommodating
As to offer a Baedeker’s to its sights and sounds.
It’s hiding behind the easy chair,
Opposite the mirror.
It’s hiding in laurel-leaf shadow,
dancing with goat-foot abandon.
It erases the path
even as the path is formed.
You think it holds an ivory key.
You think you’ll find it beside the fiery gates.
This poem holds its own counsel.
Just when you believe you’ve found the entrance,
It all fades like a winter mirage.
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