I forget who you are

because I've gotten used to

how you look

I've adjusted to

this display

of apparition;

a skin stretched

across a complex system

of organs and nerve fibers,

blood vessels,

showers of hormons

and electric discharges,

all braced

by the airy mechanics

of the skeleton:

a circus tent

concealing all kinds of pranks,

mounted on poles of porous rigidity

I forget what you are,

all too accustomed to your appearance,

your beautiful gaze,

singing with intelligence

But the slits of your eyelids

conceal terrifying stare-spheres

out of a sci-fi novel

by the likes of Robert A. Heinlein

or Olaf Stapledon

in an evolutionary experimentation

beneath the energy supply of a star,

deceiving entropy into a spiral motion

across the kids skimming stones

at the beach,

in the cosmic force made available

by photosynthesis;

in the life-sustaining pollination

of insects and birds;

in the networks of people and ants,

deep in the four ancient forms

of thermodynamics