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—