Marked and limned the nose, the eyes.
Many holed, with one heart. Listened
for years at the open mouth. Wrote words
on the tongue. Stuck eyes on. Repeated,
"Misery! Misery!" — but lied, usually.
Placed a series of silly hats
on a series of silly haircuts.
Pulled up pants. Pulled down pants.

When that old clank and moan commenced,
pushed it back to its cave,
duct-taped it to a sofa,
wrapped it tight, kissed it on the mouth,
pushed it over the edge.

We walk along the riverbed, holding hands,
stooping now and then to inspect this stone, that feather.
Suddenly, you ask me for my heart. I am so touched
I decide to throw in a lung. What the hell,

summon generosity in the face of misery, I say!
I've held such things prisoner long enough.

So I'm thinking my ankles should be gifted, as well,
yielding up my shinbones, my knees, donating
cupped pelvis, bummed-out as. There is a tyranny
to this living, a holding too tightly to things.
So take my hands, which have grasped so desperately —
and this sack of stones and bird feathers,
all that I have managed to acquire.

Who doesn't yearn to be discovered,
slouched at some soda fountain, maybe,
but looking gorgeous?

As if the soul were as radiant
as all that! As if, when we walk,
some Caesar observes us from his throne,
one bejeweled finger noting our passage.

Look, it's what we intend to be
that we become: gold is gold.
Sent to the store for laundry soap,
you return with ice cream. Lovable you.