Your body hangs inane inside
a loose tank top
barely alive.
You've missed spots and I
don't know if you're aware
your patchy hair
sounds a warning siren there.
A slick and shave'd
your clammy skin
cautious bumps, the hairs' blunt ends
And slaloming
I think you'll find the ride
a plasma torch and other
middling states of matter
apparatus.
Indelibly you bob and wave
your linking rings,
your road: dirt-paved.
