My eye has a young reflex
and my optic nerves protrude.
(The better to see you with!)
I see bright spots, too.
They float just ahead of me.
Though my Turkish saddle
is now empty (too much pressure
causing invagination; that is,
a turning within) my Isles
of Langerhans are thriving.
Whereas my Canals of Hering
are teeming with tiny gondolas
that transport lovers to secret
rendez-vous for candlelit dinners
and exquisite kisses,
the fascia of my feet are tired.
I have a hollow at my tailbone
that has been known to contain
hair and teeth. Perhaps I am
descended from apes?
I do not know and cannot keep track
of all the changes in the temple.
I have asked the gatekeeper to send up a flair
now and then. It comes in various forms:
a painful twinge, a burst of laughter.
All I can be certain of is that this dress
of flesh is well-worn. I keep it washed
and ironed the best I can. It is just
my temporary cloak, and one day,
I will let it hang still in the closet
while I go out to play.