This is a picture, not a pigture—
a body folded into bright origami,
one leg a lighthouse, the other a rumor of ground.

The room is poured from yellow nectar;
walls steam like citrus;
your skin is a grammar of violets
conjugating breathe, bend, be.

Elbow becomes architecture,
hip becomes compass,
the spine is a zipper opening the noon.

Hypothesis: balance is a joke told by gravity.
Counter-hypothesis: gravity laughs and holds you anyway.
Synthesis: you borrow the laugh, keep the hold, call it art.

Face turned over the shoulder—
that small, exact eye measuring distance
between doubt and yes.

Count it: one for sweat, two for silence,
three for the pink thunder under the ribs.
You hang the sun on your lifted foot
and the doorframe becomes a metronome
keeping time for the body’s bright rebellion.