The pier that vanishes in the morning light,
nameless and placeless, where nothing need
make sense;
echoes become a shrill and gentle music,
and these words
The poem and song flee,
leave her energy alone,
for such lucency will not be lauded
with numbers or letters
This spot will not be dressed,
for it only is
If ever an adult detects it
in the speech of a poet,
their eyes shift downwards and to the side
,or,
they smile like a child again,
an eerie smile without guile
For at the heart of this impossible
configuration they call creation is
only an odd musical genius
with nothing more useful to do
than throw humans off
with such strange beauty