No eyes will parse
My squiggled lines,
With meaning clear
Enough to slap your face.

Their joy is in the search-
The digging out of what
Is longed for, in the
Most obscurant phrases.

No hand will tousle
Rumpled hair
On recognizing that
Another saw the selfsame bud

And helped unfold it
To a bloom, so
Those in later times
Can share the fragrance.

No lips will purse
On being told
With unmistaken
Clarity what is,

For that's a lesson
Not adventure
And the readers
Have dressed up for the hunt.
                    ljm