My body’s god
Hey, you. I have a million curses for you.
I’ve stored them since you asked me to steal them
many for you. My brain is a poor one and it worked
hard in the mill a moorish man you or him asked for.
How drunk is a manifold man by himself and his four
walls that he only ever knew of. My body’s god,
a plain walking on in wheat that spoke aloud,
here is a circuit of a boy’s verdict he might
have said is what a naked plenty form talked of
though none of that form talked much except
of for a muscle couple that walked in, spoke oft of
a balanced leg here, a balanced fat leg there.