In the act of becoming,
he shuns one costume for another.
It is not the graceful chaos
of caterpillar-cum-butterfly,
but instead,
a dark-magicked wrenching
of broken-winged bird into panther,
or perhaps a drowning man into an eel,
finally able to breathe and move,
inside his true and slippery skin.
In the act of rebirth,
he rejoices in his own blood.
