who am I, or
She plays with periwinkle crayons and windowshades.
20 eyelet lace-up leather on her left foot, pointy pink on the right
looks into the mirror with each eyebrow lift, trying to keep her face from fading
into the polaroid negative. She becomes her black BIC pen, her scrapbook paper,
her digital camera lens. A collage of flammable things.
Irma waits by the window, vaguely staring down at her socks
you told me just to tell me later that you told me so
the girl and her duck drink tea and watch their refractions merge in coffeeshop windows.
(hi.)