this devilish craft by which you lead me down the wet road down through the spent leaves littered along the side of the pavement some with their open faces upwards fine lines intercepting trace them with fingertip and craftsman's eye paste them in scrapbook keepsakes of a fall romance now that its spring but they resurface bakes a sunday morning bread filling the house with earthen tones of scent and filling the mind with cravings from childhoods fable and i pass this dark bread to her but she refuses it i eat of my own conversation within my mind going over and over the exchange of ideals that have never been held beyond the borders of thought its within this madness she foils my defences and pulling me forward into the afternoon's slow lazy breath and rifled through my brazen pocket treasures thinking to have daring crimes of her own from which she would someday be an old hand like me foiled by my poormans lint out of my pocket and into her device of night its forced lock lay broken against the breached wall but she is the pretender's delight and make great noise and show of denial seating me at a banquet for hungry hearts her healed hand burnish and clean leaves me at last sitting among my peers with a rolls royce of romance she just laughs