I scan the shaded pages of this life,
trying to catch a sentence or a phrase
that offers clues to things which yet amaze
my mind . . . but sadly, much remains in haze:

the letters shift and jostle; pages writhe
beneath the rustling trees; thick hunkering roofs
drown jackdaw shadows. Lies alone are clear:

illuminated, spelled-out, pressing near—
but baseless, with a dunderheaded leer
facing us fully-frontal, spotlit. Proofs

of life’s unwieldy dissertation-points
(called Truth), though, ripple tickling all the lakes,
pattering in bat wings, patty-cakes,

sliding through scenes that summon double-takes . . . 
I feel their hintings creaking in my joints.

And still, I crave a paragraph, a line
of life’s all-guiding codex, ever coy,
to surface for my reason to employ.

Have none of us, us live-rs, earned such joy?
or are the only seeing eyes divine?