Wake up, all froth and sea foam,
and scrawny dreams. You swear
your blood is crystallizing; from
the pattering leaf-shade, watch the lift
of seven league boots whirl on by,
their owners chasing fresh hopes. You
possess all that bounty now. You may
still and bask and still never lack reward.
But, glaze-trapped bee, you stuffed,
stagnant thing, the nectar of gully clover
is sweeter undrunk. By definition,
you can’t want what you already have.