I too speak of the nose
but this nose is neither the red nose,
the shiny nose, nor the nose that stands
as a chimney on the house of my face,
nor is it the stuffy nose, the one which
serves as a monument to good taste
(although the mouth deserves some credit).
It is not the comedy nose,
the one attached to the funny glasses,
and is therefore not the running nose,
the sprinting nose, the nose you should
go catch. Yet is not a nose without
humor, not the nose that is as plain
as the one on your face.
It is not the crooked nose, nor is it
straight. It is neither the gay nose
nor the nosegay for that matter.
It is not the nose in love, nor is it a tragic
nose, but it does respond to unhappiness
with its own brand of slippery tears.
It is not the telltale nose, the hooked nose
nor the nose that is broad or flat;
it is not the nose of the oppressed,
the nose that is lynched, severed, or broken.
It is not the dry nose, the wet nose,
nor the one that bleeds, is pierced
or has been crowned with thorns.
It is not the nose out of joint
or the nose of the resurrected.
It is not a nose to believe in nor
is it one you should follow.
It is not a dirty nose or a brown
nose. It is not a Roman nose
and has yet to become nose of the year.
It is neither the coke nose nor the nose
-job nose and therefore has not been
voted Sexiest Nose Alive.
It is not a useful nose, the snoring
nose that saws through the dark wood
of night. Nor is it a cosmic nose:
This nose does not contain multitudes.
And no, it is not a nose's nose,
a timeless nose, or the nose's essence.
It may be all that the nose is not
in the fact that it lacks the nosiness.
It is but the grindstone nose,
the nose of the void, of oblivion.
This nose is the phantom nose,
that nosedive nose of imagination
and thus a nose that belongs in the air.