In all its vain nudgings and itches,
willful revolutions, flutters, sighs,
the flesh is at its best. But
its muscling throbs and impudent ticks
punish us in our prime.
What is flesh but a purse soft or
stuffed stiff with the coin of desire?
See how it begs the owner’s riffling hand
but finds the robber’s agreeable too?
And what are we but wishes
rimmed with tags of flesh?