if given the choice,
make of yourself something other
than you are? Would you, if granted
a birth engineered by your own shrill
predilections preside over the vagaries
of the one true mess that makes of us
whole and not truly mended, as if
omniscience, that ever clouded eye,
could intervene in the cloistering loss
that makes age or toothlessness
benevolent if not resigned?
Would you make of yourself something
symmetrically flawed, perfectly frail —
gorgeous! if not ill-conceived?