60

Encounter at the State Fair

on your word your Shadow falls,

still you must claim its shape and sound,

you being the nightingale that calls

it a thorn its heart has found.

Thus whispered the wily old crone

who sold me mastery for a cent,

three nail parings, and one small bone

salvaged from an accident.

She failed to state the other rule,

fearing no sale. Nor do I curse

my bargain that bears saint and fool,

makes one man a universe

and life a sly, exultant crone—

I who sell mastery for a cent,

three nail parings, and one small bone

salvaged from an accident.