Must I rewrite the sunlight or change the season
When little sense and much less reason
Bids me so.

Must I portion the self or sell the soul
For florins or gold or an older toll
To ease this batter

Could we strike a new bargain, spit
On the hands and shake for eternity
Or more, perhaps.

And should the bargain be hollow struck
What then, you say, as if there is hidden
A new finger pointing.

Does the path end here, out in the open
Where all can see and say their piece
Or does it go on.

Is the untaken road still there for the walking
Should the feet be shod in new leather,
To box the compass round.

Is distance the cure, to muffle the clout
And clatter of this suppurating ailment
Or is it a trickery

And if so, who the tricker, who the tricked
Are they one and the same, twins in a mirror
Thieves stealing each other.