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Poem	It's wonderful how I jog on four honed-down ivory toes my massive buttocks slipping like oiled parts with each light step. I'm to market. I can smell the sour, grooved block, I can smell the blade that opens the hole and the pudgy white fingers that shake out the intestines like a hankie. In my dreams the snouts drool on the marble, suffering children, suffering flies, suffering the consumers who won't meet their steady eyes for fear they could see. The boy who drives me along believes that any moment I'll fall on my side and drum my toes like a typewriter or squeal and shit like a new housewife discovering television, or that I'll turn like a beast cleverly to hook his teeth with my teeth. No. Not this pig.
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