quilty

At my best, I am pale and impassive as a dune.
Tonight I perch grotesquely, laughing gargoyle
over the action, painted and pinned
watching my palms, the room, all of the odd intersections.
I am an attic, locked and forgotten.

I blend easily into the wallpaper,
even at my worstrattling cameralike, knocking
my cheeks. I start spitting feathers when I speak;
instead, I stare loudly.

For all the space I take, I should provide more spectacle.
Believe I am indisposed, coughing ragged heaps of fabric
into a pyre at my feet.
While the city burns, I am uncarnal, corseted,
clinging to the weathervane against the storm.