How is it that everyone looks exactly as they should look,
except me?
It’s impossible!
I had to say this eventually.
You are getting old. You will die.
But not me.
Those photographs of you—are you,
unfortunately.
But look at this photograph!
That’s not me.
I have warm blue eyes. You can’t really see my eyes.
Seeing? Seeing—sorry, da Vinci—isn’t wise.
Every astronomer knows the world plays its tricks.
I am a golden bee;
my beauty and my use
hidden by sticks.