Moth-Eaten
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
whole
© Prartho Sereno, unpublished, uncollected poem