i am a sort of — uh well
do i remind of the winter solstice?
manufactured authenticity, painting
calculated legacies, circular stride
holding binoculars
and gazing from night to night
all the while i live
in my beautiful pinhole

sight, herald of wounds
rinse, rinse, rinse in red scrutiny;
scour down to my finest bones
and remember, and see.
do not ask me
who i am or who i've been
i am but here before you
on display.

carry me from the rack (careful!)
i want you to hold these edges
bring me close,
kiss with eyes blinding—
read the script, can you,
of straying photons?
it is where i am.

you nemesis of time,
carry on, won't you?
let the mark fill out my jigsaw
for this room is dark.
but please, no summer solstice
— it will burn.
it will burn
— the texture that is me.