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My dear manic shape-shifter
My coy coyote, dancing for pennies
Performing, always,
With a flourish, you turn your face dark
Your curl up into yourself
And turn 'round the mirrors
And I have lost your real eyes now.
They are all so lovely:
Some morose, sucking on a cig.
Some clownish, aching for the break of laughter.
Or angry and bewildered, a boy-child raised by wolves, alarmed by hush nows and cluck clucks.
Some absent, raking over the brick-a-brack that so bores you, calling for heads to roll for distraction's sake.

Slow down so that I can see the wound
And balm and wrap it.