The old business card used as a bookmark
told Mr. Nothing the last time he had attempted
to read the sesquipedalian first-fruits of the poet,
which he now looked at with some disbelief
as he accidentally fumbled that handcrafted volume
from under a pile of papers in his desk drawer.
He barely remembered that, now nameless, face
with incredibly long hair, that had made these lines
come into existence. But although the poet would never
admit it, Mr. Nothing knew that despite his passionate
disputes with Platocrates on the nature of feelings,
he was still as clueless as then, and just as frantic.
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