The proof was always in the pudding here, not there,
And in the tasting, the warp and woof of some few conceits
Upon a little hyperbole there, a solecism whose receipts
Obscure themselves in time with little thought or care
To what they mean once loosed or would have meant as they came
To him, restive, in briefer intercourse with casual static lightning’s flame
As passions’ sometime guests and lit by liquid lapis’ midnight rain.
Begging questions for a simpler recognition, seizures gain
Momentum by default and as if by will
Or mindless arbitration spill
Produce with no regret and even less respect on every hill,
In every valley, random, unrestrained.
“The source, the cloud, the drops themselves must be
An effortless encounter; mark it! There’s the key.“
“Perhaps,” he said, as if he always knew exactly where his words would lead.