Natural History of the Mole in the Outer Corner of Your Left Eye

Your body is a map.

Your body is part of some kind of constellation.

Your ten pearly knuckles at birth, the milk
           teeth that burst through a tender pink horizon.

Your body pushing through a gate
           no one calls the eye of a needle.

You could thread yards of fine silk through
           that implement for stitching. 

None finer than the thread of you.

Your body is a flood of asterisks,
           a banner of destinations.

Tiny points scatter across its plains,
          confusing only to errant travelers.

Your body covers the lie: something in 
          the path of tears only beckons more tears.

Your body makes confetti.