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.