a boy, bamboozled by a bag of tricks,
came to me in search of a wooden doll;
it was all he came thousands of days for:
a doll i found in a parch not far off.

i gave it to him, and he thanked me much.
he offered me a diamond, but i said
“no thanks,” with much ink, “i don’t take great lands.”
and he gave a smile to me, where i

held all my dearest things dearing, and then
moved on, passed on, pushed on and away from
me. so, i sit on the steeple and cry
tears that were never found by the rain’s hands.

asking myself, passionate man, handed
a carrot to the postal-boy, and crazed—

a fried ankle, densely aching at it
was it was as was being far from fair
time is a frank virtue, do all divine
shed to their torso, and sing frank virtue

love is far from answer, and (barriers
are far from far, and closer than hearts are)
so ache is heavenly, as air spreads to
ears and days that are far from here come here

early; like the bird the worm catches and
the abyss the doll covered up is a
round, circular basin for rye and red

barked trees are all nature has anymore
rest in dusty backs of the untouching