Quo Journal: Hart Crane
Michael Morse

The young man in our village
with his steady procession of bells.
We'd hear him from blocks away,
get frantic for change and scramble
like mad from our homes, chase him down
until his strange half smile set us straight.
All this for sweetness tapered on small wooden sticks.
All this for the purest of white suits
(ridiculous) but it was lust and we were buying.
And when he left, his white truck slow,
the bells even slower, and even,
we watched him drive the day's best hope away,
and we let him.

from Spinning Jenny #5