If an Aivilik Eskimo is given a photograph
the wrong way up,
he doesn’t find it necessary
to twist it around.

Bugs dig under the skin; leaving an itchy mound, swollen, to a tiny red eye. Aging skin draws
a map to hidden treasure; hairy is for when,
the next Ice Age begins.
I am, and I am not is the riddle that misled Oedipus
into his Freudian dream.
If the path is uphill I think I'll start at the other end,
only to find that way is uphill too.