Whither now crouch shins?
You have a sweet face
a squat elegance,
continuously center matured
despite what might be expected edge
of a speeding sun.
An alternate quick day has started
yet you sit here
among the movement
determined,
a strong bladder
subduing gravity
with a distributed
low-sprung tranquility.
Dumpy lounger,
you profound situated chair,
standing-pat
over warped shanks,
upholstered hams.
Uneven Mona Lisa,
plain as a sledge head.
Your come-here size
a painted slug.
Simply a slight film
between you and confusion,
your beaded blob
Also your skin.
So thickly spread,
an outsider chiaroscuro,
a light lit map book,
also in the foldings
a clear brow”d light
where truculent Thor
sparkles out,
from behind
your reality rejecting
Buddha grin.