nomad
hungry ghost
trembling hands
outstretched
forever seeking
that which does not
sustain

alms
for the golden
empty bowl
offerings laid
on the morning altar
until there is
no barrier

only
giver and receiver
giving and receiving
adjoined
without end
that which circles
becomes eternal

all is but illusion
we remain
unbound
released from suffering
what was fractured
in wholeness
will be found.

(In a letter to his wife,  Wallace Stevens, confided that writing was "absurd" as well as fulfilling.  What of reading the write?)
What makes you read on?  Exquisite words?  Or
Exquisite thoughts?  Ah, exquisite words forming
Exquisite thoughts.  At times so beauteous as to be
Painful!  Meter clipping along, tremulous tones trilling,
Making the reader thrill in the "Ah, yes!" moment.
Writing poetry is absurd, if you think about it.  
An absurdity bore of necessity.  
The reading, a veracious devouring
Of sustenance.  The substance of souls poured out.

I’ve eaten food yes now my stomach’s full
But why is that irrelevant to this
great hunger in my soul? oh how it pulls
What type of sustenance could I have missed?

Not food not water, no, not great success
not recognition, nay, I have this all
And yet there is some more, I must confess
the possibility that I might fall

So try I might to write a sonnet now
But such is not the will of my sweet soul
I woke at night still thinking wond’ring how
tomorrow I would go achieve my goal

And lo! I painted such a masterpiece
I am content, my soul is now at peace