The body longs for its double the way paper wishes for scissors,
for the sensation of being opened like a poem. Train a lens

on a pollen-dusted bee, on rhododendron blossoms fanning
red flames, on a blade of grass until it burns. Here, a watery

globe, a looking glass to a world gone microscopic, parallel
universes in which lives go on as they do: tax returns

due in two days, laundry two weeks unwashed, email checked
every five minutes, in my neighbor’s window, a glow. A body

sleepless, alone. Give her grist to make art from separation,
a self-portrait upside down, life in a bubble trapped in amber.

What draws us to examine tragedy, tread amongst the dead,
embrace pain? The body in the tunnel sheds silent cries

so as not to give away its position, holds a camera
to the cosmos of her eye, exposes herself over and over.