We were in search of the garden, marzipan
fruits and flesh, glazed babies posed on mallow flower,
rose and Rose of Sharon. In search of the back
gate, iron selvage, and strips of muslin, a chipped brass strike
plate. In search of the doomed search party
lost searching for the doomed cryptozoologist
who went in search of the horned serpent, the wheel-
god and the crow. We were in search of reconciliation with all
forces beyond our selves and our senses, reconciliation
with the jilted prom date, and with the cruel sprites
that squat in the vacant lot where the old vocational
high school burned down. We were in search of raw data,
real numbers or imaginary letters, transcendental
fears, rational fictions. In search of something useful.
In search of the three-lobed, one thousandth piece
that will complete this photograph of the Piazza San Marco
and allow us our sorry victory. In search of delicacy.
In search of the world’s best session drummer.
In search of the shoreline, muddy shallows to foot down in,
or any sudden, gray, tidal sandbank caped in mist.
In search of the extropic. We were in search of the foul
tip that blooped the makeshift backstop and came to rest
in our neighbor’s forbidden garden, nestling up to the fragile
tomatoes dusted with arsenate of lead, implying burial.