CHAMELEON
I am building a little boat for the
blame. I am pushing it into the stream.
See where it sails. See how I turn
away. How I am not directing it
toward you, toward anyone, even
myself, not anymore. Let the water
have it. Let it drown, or dry up
against some distant shore.
This motion is nameless, or it has
many names, and I too assume many
shapes and boundaries.
And now I am a door swinging open
for wind. And now I am the wind,
ravaging.
I’m sorry you thought there was love.
There was; it would be simpler to
believe otherwise.
Truth is kaleidoscopic. Lies are
straightforward. You like a good,
logical argument.
Once there was the smell of Texas
sage, a purple smell, pandemonious. I
can’t smell it anymore.
