One cat has a name. Two
become mere plural.
Ditto for puppies, twins.
Each bright star flares mediocre
in the midst
of brilliant company.

Ditto, yes. Once,
image was born of wax.
Who of that certain
age does not know
the preciousness of wet purple,
the chemical lilt,
each spirit master surrendering
something of itself
in the transformation to multiples?

What is it they say, An heir
and a spare?

You, staking your place
beyond the nacreous gates,
would do well to remember:
All the cells in the nebulae
bear the same number.