I am metamorphing portraiture,
a brain in a biological bottle.
What does that even mean?
I explore, a latter day harlequin,
a quizzical Lancelot sans Art or Guin.
If you let me in, if I satisfy some gaping
pinhole in your aimless curiosity,
if my foraging philosophy intrigues
your rambling wit, if we sit to laugh and cry
over pinot and brie, you will see.