Dream of the Body as Strandbeest

The ears, two snails stuck out of habit
on either side of the head. The nose,

windbreak in a field no longer at war with
itself. Declension of the chin that in the past

rested too long in the bowl offered by the hand.
Citadel of shoulders from which no doves 

cry at twilight. The knobs on the back
which at night still flutter toward the idea 

of wings. The stomach's small vessel:
wide-lipped, eternally open-mouthed,

purple as eggplant and stitched with 
a hundred and more ways to say I want.

Hinge of the hips complaining in the wind
at weather's approach. The knees, two 

slightly dented potatoes lifted from 
the dusty floor. The ankles' twin 

mounds of prayer, quiet before the feet
make contact with currents in the earth. 

The eel suspended in the middle furrow 
folding forward or back: sometimes it

flattens into a pasture of sleep; or curls,
uncertain light of an unborn child.