The king's goldsmith once learned to work in flesh
and made his lord
a toy more precious than his famous golden birds.
Deep in the palace the king remained with her.
Servants, princes starved or went away.
Former guests came once or twice into the banquet-garden
where now the weeds involved the trees
and hammered figures, and never came again.
Deep in the palace the king remained with her.
He didn't care if sometimes he tasted gold in her mouth
or cut his aging lips on a jewelled eye.
My love, my love, he sang.
Years they gamed in and out of arches and gold furniture,
he obese and old,
she lovely as a pendulum.
And when he fell and wept and spit up blood,
on his great abdomen she'd lay her head,
and closing her eyelids like perfect machines,
she'd hum or sing a ballad of their wedding feast.