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I am the ornate seemingly lacquered-shut chrysalis
in one exquisite dark corner
of the manor house's second thoughts.
Keep telling me
a god's embrace is never fruitless.

                   I don't care what I turn to.

I overhear the wan and comedic,
the water near through the pipes.
                   I sense on some cellular level
how I'll be ultimately
                                 a dappled, erratic thing.
And know I won't be laughter.

Copyright © 2004 A. V. Christie All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission