Non-Euclidean

Your body is a hypersurface
convex, concave, complex.
Top wraps to bottom,
left wraps to right.
A closed complete space
from which my very sight
and thought cannot escape.

All lines parallel
that so unplanar plain
of geometric skin
along which points, compelled,
stream towards one perfect
nexus where all things
critical converge.

Where the belly’s gentle
curve, twin arcs of inner
thighs, meet those final
tender
sinusoidal folds.

Singularity.

Sweet gravity well
that captures swelled
emotions, genital.