The days and nights of Pasty Belly,
the picks and flails of his assailants;
nothing of height, nor more of depth,
a concern, a question, of breadth,
and for how long this skin could go
unmarked, and faultlessly whole,
with such a queue for points to push at it;
how still could he sit, what time he would take,
the inches he’d need to steal to thrive.
-2003
