There was a small golden man
Reading to me from a dirty book.
Its contents were scandalous,
Especially the intimate pictures
Of the nude landscape.
There was a doll lying facedown
As if she had been shot,
And the golden man scooped
Her into his arms.
I followed him for many miles.
Finally, he used a piece of rose quartz
To write something on her
Porcelain face. She had a way
Of expressing nothing at all.
What are you writing, I asked him.
He refused to tell me.
Instead he shoved her into a mailbox.
Now it was story time again.
I sat on a park bench to listen.
The golden man had a new book.
It was called the secret of the universe,
And its pages were blank.
It had been delivered in a blind wrapper
By a postman who dressed like a thief.