Down the Well

Enveloped in a robe of béchamel,
The cool fragrance of apples in my nose
(At first I tried an Isle of Bourbon rose
But bristled at the thorns), I learn to tell
My beads as gravely as a temple bell,
And see the giants where the beanstalk grows.
I can't say what I'm feeling: one of those
Inscrutable reports from down the well.

The weather, unreliable and damp,
Prepares us for our real relationships:
Things held together just by paper clips
Or brittle pins, or an expensive clamp.
Our senses were filled up in summer camp,
But knowledge trickles from our fingertips.