it is for my ears that god gave me a stomach full of cotton.  my mother’s fingers are made of bread.  her blood she says is dieting for the blank book of beauty sleep.  I have an inside animal unable to move on from the rained out magic show.  its only joy is to bring me shoelaces.  after building houses, my father shakes himself barefoot in the railroad car of a train his angel plans to swallow.  I have nothing for my throat.