"Thigh Gap."
It's true, I have it, though, I hardly
approve of anything it does.
Suppose it bend of light or smudge
where two odd angles cross, I hardly see,
can hardly do a thing with it.
White, a zone of no flesh pressing into no.
So low, I can't scale or measure it.
I used to think, OK, a clean, sharp place to keep
or I'll grow a thing to keep for me.
But no, it's just a word to mark and mount,
a loop I lope around with.
So I count myself a realm of realms.
I vote and vote.
It turns out, we agree with everything we do almost.
We sweep the precincts of ourselves,
the rooms between each rib, and under them
till we reach the fat red condo where our blood leans in.
We leave here now.
Half heart, half townhouse come on down.
Turn on that sweet TV.
Our mise en place, our rugs, and nooks.
We're full of stuff.
We paint the furniture we couldn't live without.
It's true at last.
We have it all, though, we hardly know what any of it
does.