The ache of this deficiency sustains me.
It grows like a babe in my middle,

Yet the physique it makes is not at all alike.
There is no luster here,

No rosy flush or glow.
No promise.

And this bulge which I see exists merely
As a faulty figment in my mind's eye.

The only fluttering kick I feel
Is the vacant, restless quiver of my gut.