Satin Buddha

feeling lazy, languid, and now
un-troubled, all smooth by how
as ice melts slowly in that glass.
with energy and all, to spare
that nothing to do at all, but stare
at how it’s just a mass
that creeps its nothing way
that seeps to nothing—say
how satin suits that strut
before all serious verses
to long for lovely curses
posting poseurs—they rut
nothing ends at all that does
not look like dust



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