Finding the Best Poem In the World.

There once was a rumor
of the best poem in the world.
No one had ever seen it,
save the sage who sat at home
and did nothing
but read books and pet his cat,
Stroking away to the timed
metronome of the clock
in the hallway.

The poet presented the piece
lain on the gilt table,
sheets fluttering in the wind
from the nearby open window.

The sage pulled a rock
out of a drawer
to hold the words in place.
Gray and smooth,
the rock rested
at peace on the lines
without crushing them;
no coffee stains or ink smears
or broken arms.
Just a rock
lightly holding
the milky white sheets
in constancy.
The sage cradled the baby
with the utmost care.

How can you write something
so intimate
as a woman peeing?
The way her dark curls of hair
descend into the toilet bowl
like moss on a tree;
the earthy sound of miniature waterfalls
from bodies that will eventually die.
Human beings do not resurrect again
with spring snow melt.

I cannot know anyone that well.