my heart hangs on display in the window between
a magnifying glass where one might see the soul
of man and a telescope where one might see his
lust, in this relic shop where he lies asleep in his
chair, pale and perfect, tattoo-whorled like a
murano vase, sharp-tongued like broken china.
my hands, grasping permanently at nothing, hang
beside the browning muscle. next to them, a sign:
these have touched gods.