A Poem that Sums and Summits

"Rime being no necessary Adjunct or true Ornament of Poem or good Verse, in longer Works especially, but the Invention of a barbarous Age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meeter."

The poet doesn't find the poem, nor poem the poet:
Because the poem does not exist. These lines
Cake the snowy page, like swirling flakes
Of soot, marring whatever was. Meaning
Is only a mean of the invisible sea of atoms,
Some function of calamity, and swerve: precision
Blurs too closely and too far, the mountains are not
Anything but mountains. Let me refocus:
If I intend, my intent strikes like a scar across
The whatever blankness of the poets' minds,
Since I, the reader of the read, am reading still:
We write each other, just so and justless, the way
A rocking plow plunges into the sea
Of its own making. Nothing will ever be,
For nothing comes from nothing. My perfection
Is only one action in a series of actions, a chain
Stretching itself in curious ways, but construct
Of that train, an art of minimum application
Reapplied and going, absolutely, nowhere.