It protudes and protudes—
lunar, blue-veined; hardens finally
to a wash of blue
strings. My front less a burnished
cello than a mesh—net
of thin rays pointing
everywhere. Confused, but brandishing
skyward into breasts.
This map of a nation truer
than mine strains thin, almost to breaking.
Too many rivers swarm now, spokes
spill off their axle. And torso-long,
the view nursed at the bathroom mirror hardens again,
the globe that is there throbs
fresh, as if to reduce to strands thick and
spindly the idea of the blue
groan to come: groan to
hold at bay—at the licking
edge of the pit till it unlocks bone. Then
no spidery glances
will do, no other place but where
keening breaks off. And sheer
