To The Guileless Rover
Grope eyeless in clover for pulse and white grubs.
Slam fists into roses for they will bud over,
red stripe and scab for your wresting.
Wade shoeless in the muck of your hardening.
Pound clay into cloud until arms fall
grotesque in your shaping.
Ram full into the brick of naught,
the stained jagged brow of thousands
who thought to topple the unbuilt.
There is little salve for your seeking, young friend.
Grope, grub, slam, wail, pound, fumble
in cloud, clover and sharp blooms.
Many have sought to plaster
the white wound of their nothing,
and found themselves laughing into scars.