I, Beard

I stroke, twist, and knead my cheeks
It doesn’t looks like worship
I make sure of that
In a meticulous use of the guardian.
Instead it seems
I’m thinking
In more depth than The Thinker -
Incandescence, set in bronze, cast
Internationally - although,
I look more like the Affe Mit Schadel.


I blame the
Iberian in me
I.e. my lime-green and red blood,
Iambs that run in my veins - an
Irascible nature pours forth. My
Identity can both boil and molt.