My gift for you now occupies the twisting rhythmic colon of a train
or lies like roughage near the rectum of a plane
or hands may be dismissing it with haste
to the body of the world, which feels its waste
before you. It is so like others,
one of a great brown paper brotherhood
of parcels bound with pallid knotted string,
monks’ colours, humble vestments, but within
there is a second skin, hot, sensual
shades suitable for gift wrap material,
pagan Xmas trees and Persian miniatures.
Pastels are in and I was not sure whether you would find this kind of thing
in tune with our strange times, but you must see these singing
hues belong to volcanic fire, bomb blazes,
(blood, and lures of nature. No passing phases
oust their popularity. My gift is timid
by comparison. X-rays might show it hidden
like an inexperienced intruder.
Remember me instead for my torrid choice of paper.
Wrapping paper as a comment on layers of self.