OK.
"Clear."
This is a prose poem.
"Clear."
"An old woman is being led through the parking lot
by two girls.
They hold her hands and speak in energetic, explanatory verse,
while she cranks her head this way and that
as if expecting something which has yet to appear.
As if the crystalline clarity of this ocean pool,
cradled in two lava arms, meant something, which
we had been waiting to hear.
Something indistinguishable from meaning itself and unchanging,
so that finally, it's we who turn to go."