After Something

You can’t find it. Honestly,
That’s all you’re really doing,
Each journey back to the blank—

Neither of the sculptor’s tacks,
Neither adding slabs of clay
Nor carving and subtracting

To get at that form inside—
You’re just looking, no idea,
Hoping to find the hard thing

That won’t erode easily,
Or, no, hoping just to find
Whatever it possibly

Could turn out to be, pattern,
Enduring or vanishing,
A magic wave either way,

The dry wave, the standing wave,
The seiche hidden in the lake.
And every time you go back,

Tossing the words around you,
You’re only looking, only
Pawing through phenomena,

The furnishings of the mind,
Knick-knacks and ephemera,
Dreaming of discovery

Reaching whatever it is.
So you make another mess,
Lean back and look it over.

Not what you were searching for,
Although maybe, this time, close?
You’ll try again tomorrow.