They say the chameleon is a messenger
whose passage to the heavens
could have prevented our death
But with its strange feet, it burst
and spoiled our offering before
it reached a number known as god
Others believe the chameleon
is still inching from the old world, seeping
forward towards us, camouflaged
and crawling; its slowness – warning us
that for all our haste
and all our tricks and games,
we can never outrun nor be missed
by its capacious gaze
we cannot delay and evade
its inevitable reckoning
where we come from we come
to rest, perpetual
and impermanent, the body
is but a journey
to our former self
Flinch from me, run from me, do
not touch me –
wherever you are – be aware
I could fall
and claw onto your head,
make you forget and fall
under my curse
Do I believe it? not really
I like to stare into its wandering eyes
pick it up and let it walk over me
skin tickled, gripped: sensitive,
both of us unmasked, still-
living
But a myth begins somewhere
as a joke bears some inner truth
and once a year
chameleons come here to mate
atop these two loquat trees
that a dog I lost beneath
has given leaf
Reason, and the world today
tells me this is mere coincidence
but I am never convinced, it seems
too convenient; our petty dismissal
of the mysterious
I will always prefer the myth
