Shill or be surgical. That is the pair
Protruding from the rocks near your
Insignia, just down the lobe
From childhood or, as the textbooks say,
The end. If you transcend into phony
You get a stump of the one true
Like an evil eye in your forehead.
They shave a little bone around it,
And tattoo a map of ligaments and arrows
Pointing the way. If you’re lucky
Your liminal pucker gets tweezed right
Off, shellacked, and replaced
With a camera which can receive the data
Remissions that bubble all around us.
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