painted poem #19/21

Updated: Sep 15, 2020


If my friend giovanni is right and each snap of the lens snatches another piece of us, then

my Kodachrome-ridden self is nothing but holes—a moth-eaten version of Indra’s Net, where my tangled knots catch the light

of the endless jewels of morning. Nothing in all her singing glory

happens. And everything is shot-through with mirrored light

until there is nothing but the joyful


© Prartho Sereno, unpublished, uncollected poem

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