You can have my magazine of flesh, my tattooed book, my sick face corrupted by the heart. I’ll bring you a bouquet of little angers broken open, my ivory dog’s head, my flaccid chairs, my bed of noodles. I’ll bring you the burnt apple-black moon, the sick moon of my longing. I have an appetite for you. It is a little black bag with an elephant in it and a pinhead that he jumps on. I have all the quicksilver ever knocked from an apple with an axe. You can have the Hershey cows, the television coats. You can have the great Broadway orange, my crow of talcum, my monkey Madonna shrieking in the moonlight. I will give you nerves and the wool picked from daisies. I will bring you ten cups filled with dew, a table made of peas. You may have the impossible dancers, the giddy, the staggering maple. You may have the poplars drunk, the laughing antelopes. I will bring you ears, ointments, wigs, and jewels $$$mdash; just stay.