To wind the
prolific vomitorium of consciousness
around an invisible spindle--
the best strategy for tricking it
into resembling
a cocoon. What species of worm
is digesting its own segments
there, unaided by loud light?
Better yet,
what will it look like, transformed,
when it tears free of its
straitjacket, a mutant Houdini
five times larger than its size?
If it ever changes
and ever breaks out,
innocent and alert
as it will be,
wouldn't it be the last to know?
The patterns and colors of its
wings at rest or in motion--
beautiful enough to deceive
predators and suspend it
several arms-lengths above its own shadow.
Damn. Chills. Bulls eye.
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