by Gideon Burton
inspired by Hamlet, "What a piece of work is man?"
A thing of pieces, not so much of peace;
a work in progress, infinitely half
of wholes one holds which leave in bold caprice;
a waypoint on a torn and tearing map.
A fluid form, as lithe as nimble time;
a rhythm from the sable vaults of space;
a force, a gesture, angling for a rhyme;
a thing substantial, anchored to a place.
A set of senses, crude enough, yet apt
to weigh the wonder throbbing from the dark
abyss of things untempered, dull to craft,
yet pregnant with a voice, a past, a spark.
A measurement of thickening desire;
a sprite and trickster, caught in summer fire.
Photo: flickr - deryckh