you, my mathematician,
lust after soulless bodies
sewn up in taught, well-stitched
skins; empty

ideals. your sphere:
a cipher – round, but not full
cold idol in our futile

struggle for perfection;
in nature lopsided boulders,
buckled earth & pinched eggs
hang as heavy fruit

(voluptuous eyefuls, ripe
for the plucking.)

still, I labor on – craving
tidy, un-smudged lines,
trying to be clean-cut & ironed,
pencil-thin & smiling:

fit for you.

always slicing away at myself
with the scalpel, the paring knife,
molding my clay heart
into a perfect sphere for you,
hanging a bleached smile smartly
on my painted paper face.