was out hunting
for the truth about
my family
devouring tome after
psychological tome on
this or that

the Universe having
a special place in its heart
for disorder
entropy of idea, home, world,
galaxy, society
back to the mush, organic
soup from which we sprung

meanwhile (poem
flying off here at a psychoanalytical tangent)
a jeweler is working on a
love-box: filing, polishing determined
to inlay one very small but
perfect diamond

which another man (whose
identity you have
no doubt guessed) is down
in his garden toolshed
trying to make a
new love-box
from sticks and stalks and
leaves and many mouse skins

the old one being broken or
having long left him or
having lost its allure
or no longer serving its purpose
we wish him good headway

for here I am observing
this, ghostly liminal figure
shadow on the periphery
my chance to be
brought into this world
awaiting my turn

to stand under Orion, marveling at
each star jewel as it rotates
around me like clockwork