Even my belly,
my belly is sad;
even my breasts,
my breasts are now droopy and sad.
Even my hidden place,
my hidden place is now mournful
and sad.
My hands are now listless and sad;
a fine shirring coruscates my wrists;
my feet huddle together for comfort;
my thighs press lightly, disinterested;
my fingertips press the pen,
obediently, chastely.

My eyes sting exhaustedly,
my eyes my eyes,
my eyes boil over,
they boil over from their cauldron of sadness;
my eyes make a messy kitchen,
boiling over like poor people's potatoes
on the hob.

But my lips,
my lips are too silly to know better;
they still wait, they still wait in
anticipation of a touch
that will never happen.
O, lucky simpleton, lips!
O, to be the village idiot, lips!
still waiting at the crossroads
for a visitor
who will never arrive,

while belly, breast, cleft,
thighs, feet, hands,
gather at the wake;
jostle tiredly at the wake;
raise their glasses
to the recently-deceased,
to the fine and beautiful corpse
of passion laid out in her finery.