Sonnet with Abalone and Glue

--Robert Thomas

       

You say it doesn't mean a blessed thing,

but don't you see—that's what I want. That's what

I envy. The ocean ebbs, revealing

blue anemones, yellow barnacles,

a lone iridescent abalone.

It feels nothing for the moon, whose being

transformed it into this revelation

in tide pools. What human being would say

it means nothing? What it means is the most

blessed thing imaginable. The hide

of a noble horse becomes glue that holds

the ribs of Itzhak Perlman's violin

as it sings Mozart and Rachmaninoff.

Tell me what he does to you means nothing.