I can still wiggle the fingers
on my third arm, a rare five-leafed clover.
It sprouts from my right shoulder and
overlaps with my first one.
Since I died again in molten emerald
it dropped two places and became ghostly.
But I can still wiggle the fingers.
It even waves now and again when
the past shoves sweet ectoplasm into
My arm waves to the shrill sound
of a new siren now.
Arms four, five, and six have since lost feeling.
Lower than ghosts, but more real than
Even now, it contorts in envious agony.
Pebbles of milky jade pummel its flesh,
the welts are shallow.
It can only pay tribute to its new siren
and hope for amity rather than charity.