From within the convoluted mass,
under the thatched dome
and behind the aqueous lights;
across untraceable connections,
through routes bridged
and those bridged out;

madly scavenging backyards—
secret lattice stairs leading to
three stage subterranean cellars;
retracing swale worn steps
through made-up rooms, and
higher still,

to the cobweb dormer attic,
grabbing. Thumping. Tossing.
Disgorging the till and tailings  
until the exasperation mounts
like the minds bulk, to locate

a single word— not the perfect word,
but the only word,
which, tongue bowed and harped,
will cavort delightedly with its neighbors.