Bokelskere.no

Do not arrange your bright flesh in the sun
Or shine your limbs, my love, towards this height
Where basket men and the lame must run, must run
And grasp at angels in their lovely flight

With stumps and hooks and artificial skin.
O there is nothing in your body's light
To grow us wings or teach the discipline
Which starvers know to calm the appetite.

Understand we must be content to beg
The clinic of your tighs against the night
Were there no scars of braces on his leg
Who sings and wrestles with them in our sight,

Then climbs the sky, a lover in their band.
Tell him your warmth, show him your gleaming hand.