I cannot weave the Word
for
the tools are broken,
the mind that was frenzied office is cold.
the sapling is dry,
the call of Time--the Gambler--is frozen,
the dew is ashen,
the dust veils all openings.
the potter's wheel is still,
the pot shreds fill the room,
the feathery dance of the peacock is over,
the glass houses lean towards a fall,
the window panes have cracked,
the twelve signs are a jumble,
the wrinkled heart is in fragments,
the infant petals are prickly hard stones,
the goblets leak.
 
I search a bodiless existence for poesy
but
Samson is nervy
and
the pearl is ash.