The nature of the chameleon

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.