Ungainly placed, on a chequered board, sits

a chameleon.

It yawns, gluey lungful adolescence.

Each eye hurries, confuses syntax,

keeps clumsy fashions,

knocks over everything.

 

I wake up to this - a breakfast table debacle;

agitations over toast, milk smirking sick,

eggs peeled, juice, primary decisions,

and that gaze again, somewhat spurious.

What hand made this?

I have an image

in the butter tray, melting.

 

Some old woman snags,

cuts my thigh as I misunderstand the room.

There is a line between us –

sharp, wooden hair, knotted sturdy stomach,

grooves under her feet,

where the carpet is worn.

The dust would move through me.

 

As it was, my presence takes

 the rubbing of my fingertips

into the corners of my eyes – they itch,

full of sleep, brimmed obtuse,

subdued with ennui.

I make a note to squint;

take in the horizon,

 

the shoes I wear,  being unable.