The stillness is a spell. How can such a weight float
like that above the couch? How it makes apparent
the inscrutability of symmetry, its requiring of nothing. The bronze
gleams softly in the little light. It is not a play.
It is not a response. The breast is the phallus is the breast is the phallus.
Tender and absolute they have cancelled time, determined all
confession. There is no need to look at anything else.
Questions confirm their serene tyranny, the silent assumption
of all the nerves’ thrillings to the world. This doubleness a single
gate you will always be passing through.