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

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