Naked carnation gray I wavered in, dodo-nosed, stumbley pie. There were
barfed-up bees and sandwich crusts and the straw was musty warm
and all was scratchy comfort.
Since then, rain and sun and nasty ice, and sometimes French fries,
a nice puddle for bathing, the glints of light piercing the library mirrors
and sponged up by the bronze vertebrae,
tiny minty leaves ungathering and sinuating,
then yellowing and relinquishing.
Here is my spot, mostly unseen, almost dry, almost safe,
pinions every whichway, down undowned,
on my left temple a fluffy badge like an extra ear saluting the sky.
Say something to me that soaks my pallium,
or better yet draft me a map to the middle way
and I will compass my way back
after my oily plumes tatter away,
coral feet curling up stiff, and
my mind molts the body,
think well of me and I will return, following the poles,
finding a new true family,
naked carnation gray.
