In the best of worlds there would be this smaller scrap
For calculations and for random notes as to their disposition
There would be spectators, clumsy though well-meaning, appearing
And disappearing and reappearing enabled only by the colors
Of their cries and the desire to return to uncompromising speculation
All rather like myself in that regard because the difference is never a great one
Some are seduced by the turned page others by the torn
A soul who has chosen the body in which he wishes to live
Something well drawn enough to be real
Such affirmation is opportune but difficult to resist
Much like that business about the pages turned and the pages torn
Or was it cultivated for just one bud, the sentiment runs
It wasn’t much to begin with, fallen as it did from the wrong attention
What do you think you ought to do