The world knows you possess it—it is yours:
sweaters and sweatshirts, gold chains and tailored suits,
shampoo and suntan lotion and perfume….
You move among all things and pick and choose,
consummately consuming, never to be consumed.
Great models, when they dress—and undress too—
consciously pose to emulate your pose:
You cross the street, the sunlight in your hair,
and stop to talk; you lean back in a chair….
You mold all things around the way you move,
and everything so yields itself to you,
it is your body’s fashion that shows through.
And my heart, dangling in its wooden cage
like a chained dog that cries “Wolf! Wolf!” all night,
leaps, tugs, and jerks, and yanks, and strains,
hanging itself in helpless rage
the moment you come into sight.
