Truly, I would love to carve them up—

like a porcelain doll—

all my lovers, upside all around.

Not too grey, not too gay.

You run around like dirty mice;

I play with the ribbon lace,

I would have liked to wrap over you face,

to shut your rosy lips with grace.

To say I do not love you?

That would only cause haze.

I only dream of sculpting you up

in between the thin fingers,

near the palm of my hand.

I love you; I just wish you were grand.

Maybe sewing you up wouldn't be too sad;

I'd tailor you up without the cracks.