Thistle thorns. 

You can judge a man by his wolf whistle 

that and thistle of thorns picked 

from wet paws in the crisis averted 

Now the length of yarn 

Surpasses the locked jaw 

in the atrophy cabinet buried 

On compassion fruit shore.

The eye of the beholder a frozen 

sundial counting out steps 

Until the breaking of dawn. 

Chorus the hippo sunbathes 

With speckled smoke and 

Mirrors.