Have the sticks of your playthings become the bars of my heart,
A withered face turning from a window of sun
To a wall of aged yellow,
the substitute thrill
of building walls a hundred ways
in exchange of one death
by gaze?
Well by well, a love story
made ragged when the wind
blows too far east,
A bending elm sheltering long
the sparrow nesting
hatefully in an April snow