Unknown to science, a glasslike filament
works its way from the prostate (“guardian,”
or “one who stands before”) up through the tough
but flexible hinge between the stomach muscles:
it follows the xiphoid process, and runs inlaid
like enameling up the sternum, and ends at last,
glistening, ice blue, at the trachea
and the tongue.
No one knows what it is for, what
sublimate may rush through its canal,
what impulsive electrons may skate
its slippery ice. All we know is that mine
is broken, and may never mend.