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.