Warmly past the wall is water running
and amongst it the sound of ammonia’s arm
places me firmly where dreams evaporate.
It’s been the worst storm in forty years
although a friend in California is in the early morning
just now enjoying Lycra.
I have a memory of Idaho unvisited
of Shakespearean celluloid
and through all of it the roofs are turning white
as though our negative-like lungs
perch high on each house.
My feet are cold
perhaps metaphors come to life
and I worry about perfecting things
for it is the nature of the chameleon
to make even the uncared for right.