I know I am caught writing poem
after poem after
poem: odes to the girls
who have perfected the
backwards step onto the scale
who know by uneven hearts their
silhouette in neatly creased
paper dresses. they tie at
the small of the back, shivering
in plastic chairs swinging
unshaven calves.

this is a sterile temple. Once you
leave you crave that chemical
scented silence.