Great Chameleon, might you carry
my bones up from this place?
Where my cheekbones won't lie
all stitched up, by the corners
of dim rooms
Where my hands won't sleep
under lost looms,
and where maybe, someday
I'll find something to lose.
Great Chameleon, when will you change?
Blame me, I've boxed you
up for my will
and though Need seems to pay for change
There's a Wanting mind that paints in frames.
So down one more drink of caffeine,
dawn one more blaring truth at hand
To reach honest images in my sleep
and fight the rest again.
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