Greek Torso

We mount the fragment on

a steel rod, call it torso

of a man, as if carved that way,

in a modern, close-cropped

style. The stumps of arms and legs,

the neck, dismiss their old

attachments: This is all you need,

the vitals, all you can trust.

The figure's first and gravest

injury, the sloughing of skin-

colored paint, we cannot gauge,

and only guess what look, what gesture

head and limbs spirited away.

Stripped, the gentle contrapposto

hangs like a question above

the stub of a penis, echoes

our own phantom ache

of wholeness.