Who Rides the Ox to Hunt the Hare

What you found, you closed
Like a vault, big wheel
That clicks on the front—

Once one’s seen that wheel,
Watched its dials slow-spun,
Left, clicks, right, clicks, left,

Who could help but think
Gold must be in there,
Rare things, rich things, wealth?

All hands twitch to try
A turn at the wheel.
All locks can be sprung,

Or blown, dug up, slipped
Past, right? Gold at last.
But we say your prize

Was the form you built,
The mad locks you made,
Not what you then placed

In their holds for fools
To glimpse and dream theirs.
How you closed was gold.