distressed raze somewhere to the left, a mourning dove sings what she has to say. a fly big enough to be a bee jogs in place. the sun makes a mirror of a filthy garage window. i aim my camera that way. the slats between the panes of glass are frail prison bars flecked with rust. broken strands of silk bend my body into a poor man's jackson pollock painting. my face is a black void. the only colour a salmon swirl where my mouth should be. i look like i'm disappearing. it's the most honest self_portrait i've ever taken. 230415 what's it to you? who go blather from