My groans have gone solid—
how? I am so punctured,
see, I’m puncture and poke-
though, but spilling scarcely,
only a drop. It’s strange that
I can’t afford to spend.
Who is this shape, so wrenched and
wrought, this space-ridden block,
these aggregate slots, this
free-standing head, eyed
so many times with focus?
-2005
