Red-Shouldered Phasmid

A twig with leaves;
the art of nature imitating nature.
A stick that flies;
immobility spiced with surprise:
crystalline flash of water or lightning
then camouflage again—
debris on a forest floor.
More likely to flatten than to find one
I study photographs, recall
the museum corner that yielded fragile
brown stem, two rose-tinted leaves
fanning cellophane into power.
What this mirror conjures
is angularity tempered by elegance;
a severe self-effacement
masking a taste for subversion—
wild dazzlements that confuse
and illuminate: a device best used
when under the influence of poetry …
After, it's back to fitting in,
or seeming to, practising stillness
as if life depended on it,
while my exemplar amplifies and devours
the foliage of jungles,
darkens by night, fades by day,
its colours transmuting as it waits
and is preyed upon, chews out its span,
becomes what it may be.