idiotropic

On craggy coast and yeasty shore
Philosophers have walked the lonely walk before
The deadliest view of the living sound
Primeval slush to the horizon unbound.

Two decades old, no need for a stroller
No need to grow two decades older
The ice plant sucks salt from the rock
The surf, the gulls — a ticking clock.

To the nascent naturalist
She speaks in tongues
With a breath of mystery
She fills his lungs
He coughs up questions and answers.

Salty absurdity as his hammer
To the rock he pins a foundation of lectures
Till he’s built around him four broad walls
A sturdy home of queries, conjectures

With a weary sigh he surveys his tribute
Relishing proudly its perfected angles
Four broad walls and not a window to breathe through
The vine whose roots the branches strangle.

In convoluted sentential tangles
He digs and prays for profound detection
But mystery remains at sea:
“Goodbye, perverted reflection.”