It doesn't have a tip to spin on


it's neither red nor sweet

it doesn't melt, or turn over, break or harden,

so it can't feel pain, yearning, regret

it isn't even shapely just a thick clutch of muscle, lopsided, mute.

Still, I feel it inside its cage sounding a dull tattoo:

I want,

I want

but I can't open it:

there's no key.

I can't wear it on my

sleeve

or tell you from the bottom of it how I feel.
Here, it's all yours, now
but you'll have to take me, too.