Nothing of his own but a handful
of discolored beans his mother tossed out
onto a clump of furious dandelions.
Everything else he stole from the giant:
the goose he plucked from its nest,
folding its golden eggs into his flesh,
the greens from the garden, even the air, but
guilt didn’t stop him; it only made him stoop.
It was the harp that ruined him,
paint cracking, eyes full of dried glue.
He wanted to find himself in music, but
before he could get out of the clouds,
the harp sang out in its own piercing voice,
and the giant, awakening, devoured him.