Below the rim, a citizen carries a penis
detached from his body

and so big its head could be the thumb
of a god about to stub someone out.

But then you notice foreskin-folds and a vein
running river-like to the base

where a little spade-shaped bag of skin hangs.
Once this is clear—prick not thumb—

you see what the man carries
is a burden: his calves flex

against the black of the old clay.
Left-face, shoulders square,

with the affect of the empty-handed,
he’s moving forward

as if the pretense of another purpose
could lighten this load.