I hoped to find under my skin
A lump embodying that which
Powers my words invisibly—
In guts, in the devious sap
Of hormones, in grey medulla—
But failed. Therefore I trick open
That box with which we’re provided
And prize out, by main force of will:
A three-ribbed smoking prime roast beef;
Inside this, pillowed, a woman
Stripped full to the hair of her shame;
In this, sound six-percenting bonds,
Compounding, self-reproductive;
In this, butlers for indolence,
‘Not in, he won’t be in’; and boxed
In this, bound in stamped calf, my words,
Volumes gilded with my name: me.