I saw a man balancing rocks on the beach one day. Each sculpture was about 10 rocks high. I asked him what they represented. He said, “chaos in order, man.” Just for kicks, I shaped the poem so it looks like it’s balancing, too.  

                              Whipping, the wind snaps his frock, 
                                The beach his canvas, the earth his chalk. 
 
                                                  Acts of balance he concocts, 
                                                  Of jagged stones by th’ old cliff rocks. 
 
At these statues, first I balked, 
Yet here I stand in full gawk — 
 
                                     With wide wonder how they lock — 
                                     Cragged posts of misshaped blocks. 
 
             Marvels each of slant and jot, 
             Settling into time-worn slots, 
 
                                                 Balanced on the perfect spot; 
                                                 Suspect to the slightest knock.