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Pathways twitchy that carry the signals
from the brain in a circle
at the beach where I am trying on my adulthood
all my old familiars in a barely legible
photograph, the sun setting through factory haze
in duplicate upon the surface of the Bohai.
Twitchy infant in white I am also subsumed in my
mother's perm, the gnarly trunk of our yard
in Golden Acres with no idea what I am in for.
Pathways indeed, shortcuts to the playground, short
cuts and shorter circuits: There's me, Beth,
RJ. I see Anastasia with her face turned toward me.
What a mess, a tangled understory told backwards
from infancy, a garbled transmission, transmitted disease.