• I searched for the meaning of life the other day,
    in my spare time between engagements,
    a magnifying glass in hand
    and a radioflyer wagon in tow.

    Down into the valley, I strode,
    far away from bustling traffic,
    a stream-lined stampede of anvils,
    and apart from cloudy disturbance.

    Here, in this unhatched nestling,
    hardened along the outer membrane,
    but preserved, delicate in its yolk,
    I conducted my research.

    I pricked every vein of the maple leaf,
    of oak and willow, too.
    I plucked the follicles of prey and predator
    alike, emptied them into chambers and cavities.

    I combed the dampened patch,
    blades speckled by transparent warriors.
    I unearthed the burial mound beneath
    the rock, a 144-legged gatekeeper there.

    By my observations, my tests…all inconclusive, my search fruitless.
    Yet a voice without a sound without a decibel.

    I searched for the meaning of life again today,
    in a sliver between the short hand and the long,
    blank paper neatly folded, triangular, in pocket,
    two silvers coins for the toll.

    Into the lairs, one domed, some vaulted,
    another arched, I sauntered,
    a footstep per three-quarters second.
    Pastels warmed and metallics shone.

    Here, in these catacombs,
    made of cold and dreary foundation
    but lofty, echoing rafters,
    I conducted my research.

    I leafed through the leather-bound book,
    curled as its pages were at the edges.
    I perused the ancient papyrus scrolls,
    geometric pictographs scattered across.

    I scanned the columns of blotted ink,
    brushstroke left, sweeping line right.
    I recited the verses of the scribe’s text,
    each syllable softly puncturing air.

    But my inspections, my experiments…all inconclusive, my search unmerited.
    Still a fire without wood without kindling.