All dressed up, and still
       no place to go.  The road
lies choked with unforeseen
       debris. I have misplaced
my keys, and, regardless,
       I simply cannot find
reason to start the car.

I have pored above
       this passage for a week.
The prose of Palamás
       proves far too thick a soup
to dish without great care
       even if no amount
of care appears to matter much.

The paradox persists
       beyond my ken, which proves
not a single thing, save 
       this: our dear Palamás
knew not to float above
       the text at hand, but knew
our hope lay ever in descent.