Song of the Dwarf

Maybe my soul is straight and good,

but she’s got to lug my heart, my blood,

which all hurts because it’s crooked;

its weight sends her staggering.

She has no bed, she has no home,

she merely hangs on my sharp bones,

flapping her terrible wings.

And my hands are completely shot,

shriveled, worn: here, take a look

at how they clammily, clumsily hop

like rain-crazed toads.

As for all the other stuff,

it’s all used up and sad and old—

why doesn’t God haul me out to the muck

and let me drop.

Is it because of my mug

with its frowning mouth?

So often I would itch

to be luminous and free of fog

but nothing would approach

except big dogs.

And the dogs got zilch.