Shall we call this "Torso?"
Stieglitz would approve, I think,
a granite monument.
no allegory, no alibi . . .
just seed like grain.
In the white light I focus
down the enlarger
on a flipped flare of nostril,
on nipples proudly in that plane;
The navel subtly swelling in from
the feathery napped haze.
I go through the sternum valley
to clavicle hills, stop
down in the peaceful dark
beneath the nape . . . basins
flowing with throat and neck.
In the dark room
I try to remember the light.
My hand flutters in its beam,
dodging that left pectoral,
shaking as hesitantly leaving it
bloodless, breathless, grained
from the strain of pushing,
from heated solutions of hindsight,
. . . the ambiguous grays of memory.