Plates of the shoulder blades
angle in,
cymbals awaiting climactic clash.
Knuckles of the spine,
pressed in plasticine,
make a ridge under Casper skin.
Divergent eyes, straining outwards,
study the unknowable.
As you view, circle ’round.
Don’t touch the glass.
Someone has tinkered with the Thinker.
This is the uneasy future.
Aremyfeetofftheground 