From a metempsychotic

hotplate appraisal of
Ketchum and Kant, I’m
 
now this stammering
fishwife trying to
transmute god
from the rocks or
pop my forebears’ souls
from a flurry of chickenpox I’d
written off as a stress rash—
 
Búri kicked out of the snow-frail
ashes cast as a farrow of fireflies
freckling sunbeams, maybe, or
were they just stars concussed
to freckles or faeries—the polka-
 
dot world of Seurat now plodding,
its hoofprints pupils enthused to just
jaw and chaw some seamless dollop of dust
 
into all of the sumptuous
charts and compartments that
smirk across sun-kissed rocks picked
open