Yes, I have a warm body, and it grows
scepter, ball and beard in sudden curves.
Yes, I move out of mountains. Yes, their folds
fall in a spiral (where my left shoulder swerves).
Yes, here’s a scepter and, of course, a ball,
In hands made only from mountains. Yes, I’ll lose
Nothing. Rock holds me. Rock is all!
My beard points past a throne, past iron shoes.
Can rams’ heads flank arms that murder? Can a crown
stand tall as gems need to shine from? What can bone
learn from flesh in a land without up or down
(except what hides in the dark under my throne?)
Can any lost desert ever be fully grown?
What can I take? There is nothing I don’t own.

First published in The American Journal of Poetry