What the combers of honey
had found in their finding
we knew in our knowing.
From the glowing center
of this near-ambiguity,
a durable something may be
extracted, exacted and framed.
By this are we named,
by this are we numbed.
A well-thumbed, weary volume,
this our essence and our function.
And the combers of honey
go on a-combing, seeking,
finding, though never founding.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 