A photo is a double-cross:

The soul, for one, a total loss,

The residential spirits mocked,

The walls defaced, the statues hocked,

But still we dupe the common senses

(Commonly with coupled lenses)

As if reproductive vanity were linked

To being copiously sync’d

And immortality depended depended

On lives numerically extended,

Our rounded world wrapped and tied,

The same design on every side

(Since everywhere on a standard sphere

There’s identical to here),

Where the camera, in our place,

Craves the perfectly proportioned face

(No doubt the shallow reason why

Nature duplicates the eye)

And in our blindness nothing’s nearer

To the real thing than a mirror

(Witness teen identities

Epitomized by fake IDs:

What’s a photo if not equal

To the living subject’s sequel

(The puffed-up self is still beloved

Even more than overdubbed)) -

Above my head in face I notice

The Rorschach inkblot of a lotus

Where, doubling up, a flower tries

To cut the planet down to size.