are these pictures anymore a
documentation of me, or a
somewhere through the looking glass.
Little hands, little feet,
sunshine in glorious giggles.
Lost locations imprint soulshine with a
savored idiosyncratic intention.
Descent from one shell to the
skin is shed and left for the
insects to ingest.
Transmutational metamorphosis, the
aphids take out the trash.
Another version of the truth is
born, and with weak knees, embraced
if only to seem less of a stranger than
the girl before her.
Built in the factory,
recycle and renew.
Fractious is fissured with
animosity. Melancholy moves in,
echoing in between the
poorly sewn-in polestar.