Give me an image, my withered one; a penny or a shard of glass for an image. If it shimmers and winds in shattered etched close lines of black and white, then perhaps a nickel or a broken bottle, or a suicide cut in your neck hide, slash stab and twist. I'm patronizing your soul.

You're a shame, but there's nothing to be done about it now. When I found you among the banana peels and pubic hairs you were large and wrinkled, ants flowing in rivulets down the sleek trendy hard gray of your body foreskin. Then they circumcised you, cutting clean around the base of your round foot cilia. Now see what you've become--maybe you'd make a good album cover.