A new poem

On a special polished shelf
with all the things I've make-believed, reads
The only spell I know;
a word of love
Thrown down my alleyway,
And the homeless man lifting eyelids
To see His gray scale concrete home
Put all the royal gardens to
the humblest of shame.
These clapping hands,
The yeast
The unbaked bread -
like standing to close to paintings
or watching people from afar,
how can anyone see clearly when its all
tacked up inkblots on a dirty blue cloth. . .
and I grow too quickly into a bitter old man,
failing miserably in paper skin
to make right these quiet regrets.
But even your voice,
oh torrential storm,
carries the softest drop of rain.