To this body I should offer rewards,
say, “Awe, dear savior, your wares
give me space to dance in, your skin
gives life like a rare earth element.”
But oh too often the wars I reared
over the shape of my ears drowned
out any good thoughts this wearer
hears. No, this skin is a dreary
pair of waders, a wad of odd gum,
the dust from some old dull saw.
It is the invalid ward of an intellect
rich and imaginative, though distant.