Sunrise tree

Photographing a Caterpillar or,
How Two Magicians Met

I stoop, crouch, fetalize myself
Around my machine, but even
My best intentions are too large
To crowd into his small world.

The idea of permanency arrests him,
But then he wrinkles on his way
To more important things, like
Spinning himself into butterflight.

With mechanico-chemical magic
I can spin light to sculpture
His attitudes for me on plastic
And never bother memory.

Still, it lays on my mind
That I can only photograph.
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