An iguana hides in your folds
of phantom gray,
and from this patterned gray
it doesn’t look away, it
doesn’t look your way,
or all the ways
you imagine yourself
looking, there posing beneath it,
smiles cocked for the gun-bold
camera ready to tease
free from you, but not it,
more than your freely given smiles,
a thought
that you’re more than
you are, more than
a too-freely wielded weapon,
and not
more than the iguana
who gently feeds within
your violent folds of phantom gray.
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