A brief note on Starla

Starla waits in object snuffs, Toledo face-paint, Paris sheen, the round lamenting of the labial eye, a promise of purpose, turquoise, feathers against her cheek for rooftop dreams, a constant moving up, up, when really it’s just out, out: that broken foreign process of chest, heave, fingering a small toy train with red painted wheels. Glass bowls. Wool. She ages in meta-, tele-, the parched voices of her wooden birds. Her synch-, stalled mediation, mystic gutteral, all body transcended in fickle wrapped candies and pieces of cloth.