It’s of no consequence to wander
with hemolymph glued in tennis shoe
grooves and consider such footsteps
tracked by alien plasma, a blue melody
pondering the elements of iron and copper
or simply the ultimate function of blood.
In a pirouette of precocial worlds,
pondering the spectrum of brethren,
it’s worth wondering if I feel more infantile
or insect—perhaps a final or only specimen.