The curve of thigh is too much, too big for the eyes
too soft for its own good. When the underbone slides tec-
tonic, you are all plate and rigid, all Picasso and math.
     Woman, you are the middle ground, your collar bone
the great scale around which all things balance,
flesh and metal alike, polarized. The world hangs
like laundry from your body, your symmetrical hair
as heavy as two identical ships.
     Where the body fails is mathematical, failure
is math, body is light plus speed. But in the sunlit slats
where you walk, you are no longer measured in pounds. Light
encloses you, and your lucid body, your body disappears.