O round and unknowable, unrhymable,
thick skinned, full of letters, spongy and porous,
O you, of whom I write this sonnet-chorus,
whom challenged fingers struggle to be able
to find their way beneath the colored surface,
through flesh, then rug, and to the pulpy center
(but first it takes a knife to pierce and enter):
O are you worth my eighty five cent purchase?
If I should hold you forth in my left hand palm,
and plunge my right hand fingers in your navel,
and rip away the layers between your heart
and mine, would you try your best to do your part,
kiss my lips with citrus and the love I long
to hear from someone’s mouth. O are you able?