So much was granted you.
Hose gush in July,
the quicksilver patter of unknown tongues,
empty noonday intersections,
a gambler’s tragic, faltering grin.
These evanescent treasures you’ve spurned
time and time again for
Mammon and simple want of care.
Reader, can you seize a second,
halve it like a peach,
and suck out its celestial marrow?
Trace the treetops with an outstretched finger:
is even a single leaf subject to your command?
King without a country, monarch
innocent of lands, come down from
your proud tower, come down.
Awaiting you like a bride her groom are
light pastures, the sweet grinding of the stars,
fox tracks already vanishing in the dew.