The only things remaining are the eyes.
What frames them frames them furnished for demise.
The sagging bags below are seashell-shaped,
Ornately splined, scoured, glacier-scraped.
The face is hanging from a splintered chair—
Greasy saddlebags, a sway-backed mare.
The skin’s afloat with spots and scabs and moles,
A sea of ghastly archipelagoes.
The mouth is apt to buckle when it shuts.
A smile begets a labyrinth of ruts.
The lips are such as cannot be my wish—
Fit only to bedeck a Bottom fish.
The ears are mushrooms rotting past their time—
Crumble each and bury them in lime.
Yet my eyes are silent, young, and free!
Miraculous things found among debris.
It’s bound to put ripeness in a thought.
So much I feel I am, yet see I’m not.
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