Edgar Degas, Self-portrait, 1900 You're like a bluish worm, tacit, Squirmed your way into my little heart. A hook and a red fruit, You have the look of blood from the eyes and nose. Living in your cardboard box, What one of your nude women could want you now? Just that one with the fat paper body. Instead there's Martha, ruddy and disgusting, Bleaching the color out of your hours. And that garish orange! Deep pockets Like two peach pits you eat but say nothing. They're like turpentine to the brain, Mixing up the eggs and oil, Spreading the batter on thick. Lit like chinese ghouls on New Years, Paper face and paper neck, And an iris the color of a flat hand. A body of cornstalk And a stomach filled with water and pits. They're a brownish metal. But you like flowers and soft things, Pastels, curtains, sheets and women. Their indentions lie quiet in your bed, flat ghosts, Pale dogs. You'll get up once a day to check on them But your pupils are made from mica And the whites are only milk. At dawn You swallow a rose for breakfast And let blackness be the end of it.