By David Metcalfe   An urban youth lends no pastoral allure to chalky candy charms and flimsy cardboard tokens. Until, within a sepulchral view of a rose adorned skull, faint echoes of divinatory lots and sympathetic magic are discerned beyond St. Valentine‚Äôs fallen face. Wandering beyond mercantile districts, into a dispersed and disputed hagiography, we find him moving...