4.10.13

My autofocus made squeeing sounds when I took today's picture (color: olive). Actually, whirring.  Angry whirring.

This poem is dedicated to my skittish autofocus.

Paisley ghosts wriggle

on reflective silver,  squirm

in and out of focus, millipedes

that trick the camera.  I hear

their whisker-legs click against metal,

scratch for a foothold, as

autofocus screams

and runs from the room.