I walk your landscape

with its tightly budded trees

your lack of charity

and wealth of hurdy-gurdies

render you exotic

but not long suffering

while I am a bactrian camel

in search of a tavern, a turnstile, the rhine

I am fascinated by hybrid creatures,

ostrich plumes, trolls

so I let you print me in stages

sugar lift

aqua tint

waiting for the acid to bite

I am catlicked

wondering when dürer’s lions will consume me

or perhaps inkless today

you press in

I am embossed

your anonymous mother

your 17th century prostitute