Die Sprache ist ein Labyrinth von Wegen.
L. Wittgenstein

One has no choice but to think of Aristotle
And the hare, or was that Archimedes,
Or possibly Samson, keeping up
In any case is hard to do, amid the broken
Arts and elevated ephemera that dot the eyes
Across the trees and into the shallows,
Arrivederci of time, is there here a home
For the restless, suites for the deft, or
Poets dressed up in herring suits,
Ill-fitting or tailored, boned and tweedy,
A starry-eyed cluster, a pleiade of sorts
One might say just as one just did,
Fretfully enchapelled, ensorcelled
In garrets, with cherried lisps, or even
Asquat in galvanized tubs, whatever
Are we to make of all this, and while we're
At it, watch out there, you gawkers,
Move along, there's too much to see here,
Who is it, par exemple, has written
All these books scattered round the room,
Their titles entitled to question and query,
Unbidden Exhumations of Inspector
Lispector ; Missing Cantos and Stanzas
Of Doubtful Origin ; Sullen Silences,
Ceaseless Transitions ; ABCDs of Flim
& Phlegm ; Kissing Marilyn or Measuring
Mussolini , leading one to ask of the making
Of books is there no endorphin, atritt
Atrot, atritt, gruff wit, delicate dances,
Dark mutter, orbital gravity, a hell
Of a good universe if you ask me
Or even if you don't (you didn't),
Quite good enough, better for that
Matter than we deserve, poised as we
Appear to be on that tortoise shell
That even Achilles can never catch.