You ask . . .
a penny for my thoughts,
a context of the mind?
Then unseal this pandoric vault
and count them in a frenzied ratio,
one to one,
for each . . . a grain of sand.
Cup your hands and catch them falling,
count the crystal scarabs flying,
weigh the particolored snow-flakes
whirling in a pool of blood.

     A penny for a fantasy?
Why! the price is usury,
unless . . . perhaps
you are a fancier of splintered images,
or a modern mendicant crying:
New wares for old!

     Do you come buying
shattered effigies and dreams,
repairing figurines?
Do you wish for just one thought
with such a price . . . a penny?
Well . . . the profit is all mine.
Come . . . behold !
My panopticon of memory,
the concessions of the years.