Infrequent is my heart... is the rain... the sullen part of every beating fist against my windowpane, renouncing all my dreams, my claims, as if the drops' joyless sound could split ambition halfway down, make one part stray like stray balloons, the other mocking (mere buffoons). The clown of hope, lost in a crowd, paints his face orange (loud), so garish that the image stuns that part of me devoted to fun, for the moppet is tossed from here to there, raggedy moppet who fears flame's glare, who moves silhouetted across the walls and sneaks under doors, along dark halls and whispers to the dead in a far-off place and sings them to sleep with: "It's no disgrace to fall like you fell with your hands so bony, your eyes shut tight and your heartbeat stony!" Little prophet with buttons for eyes: snip out your tongue and a roomful of lies flit in the air like flighty ghosts, land in the butter, spread on toast. Infrequent little cups of truth pass by my mouth, sweeten my tooth, infrequent as the beating part of every man's still thirsty heart.