two-thousand pieces, but who
counts them? Each a puzzle
unto itself, a question of interlocking
limbs and sockets. Each a question
of dependencies, neighbors, rows and columns.
Colors, shadows, lines, printed hints of a great
whole each piece should fit into. Each fits,
must fit, must have a place, but sometimes
the ground is mistaken for the sky,
until the right pieces find their places.
Till then, these will rattle around the box,
passed over again and again as fingers
comb through, dig in, ferret out,
select, inspect, reject.
Start again.
The patience of the piece
rivals the patience of the puzzler, trying
one by one, head to hole, around the
edges of what is already known.
