The saris go by me from the embassies.
Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet. They look back at the leopard like the leopard.
And I. . . . this print of mine, that has kept its
Alive through so many cleanings; this dull
Navy I wear to work, and wear from work, and
To my bed, so to my grave, with
Complaints, no comment: neither from my chief,
The Deputy Chief Assistant, nor his chief—Only I complain. . . . this
Body that no sunlight dyes, no hand
But, dome-shadowed, withering among columns,
Wavy beneath fountains—small, far-off,
In the eyes of animals, these beings
As I am trapped but not, themselves, the trap,
Aging, but without knowledge of their age,
Kept safe here, knowing not of death, for death—Oh, bars of my own body, open, open!
The world goes by my cage and never sees me.
And there come not to me, as come to these,
The wild beasts, sparrows pecking the llamas' grain,
Pigeons settling on the bears' bread,
Tearing the meat the flies have clouded. . . . Vulture,
When you come for the white rat that the foxes left,
Take off the red helmet of your head, the
Wings that have shadowed me, and step to me as man:
The wild brother at whose feet the white wolves fawn,
To whose hand of power the great
Stalks, purring. . . . You know what I was,
You see what I am: change me, change me!
