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
