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.