You and your gold doorknockers, those two rings of golden milk in your ears, I love you for the things that go into your ears, for the Odysseys and Onegins and all the love letters of Abelard and Heloise that make all that milk into a cream.
Your hoops hang high and tight until you forget to take them out, I like when you forget to take them out, and in the mornings I wake up to your low-tolling jingle in gallons and the liveliness of your jaw saying things that wake me up with a natural cheeser on my face and questions galore in my dry mouth and lungs.