So many years have passed

since the tragic loss of your bosom,

described by Plato himself

as surpassing the power of language—

all across our American highways,

the slick tableaux of truck stops

speak to the same want

for nature’s koan, for adipose

with or without gowns thin as tissues.

Tonight, more than Athens,

more than the cinders of Alexandria

or this daily strain on democracy,

I mourn your lost breasts.

If only Plato thought to note

whether they were haiku or sestinas.

If only we, too, could be

loved for what costs us nothing.