your practiced slouch, your porkpie hat at rakish angle,commending the dumpling-shaped lump atop your pelvis—as if we’ve one more thing to consider amidst the striptease of all your stanzas and all your lines—draws me down into the center of you: the prize peony,so that I’m nothing more than an ant whose singular laboris to gather the beading liquid inside you; bring it to light.
Consider the deep structure of the following contrast: Playfulness vs hard work. How would you fit the images under each category?