Without surrealism

God! What shall I do
with these mace-like hands
on my thin legs
(I can’t even clean rice with them!)
and this head of mine like pumpkin
that you left on my shoulders
one drunken afternoon!
My shoes got shabby
from searching the key to this silence
and a deep enough hollow
for my tears.
Have pity on ugly me!
In return
I’ll give you the
gold beads from my ears.