Shapeshifter

by Leonore Hildebrandt

You’re like the man who walks up to the mic
so profoundly out of breath
he manages to emit only rasping sounds
— a kind of rhythmic static —
then laughs at his helplessness
which all along has interested him more
than the pursuit of a wholesome life.

You’re like the bird who flees the nest early
who rattles and caws from a nearby tree
who declares we should never buy into
the ten-thousand things
that distract us from flying freely
only to reveal at the end you spoke in jest
while settling for some road-side trash.

You may be either fluff or wisdom
a fluid sort of person akin to butterflies
who seem never to keep a steady path
and yet travel the length of continents —
you say, play is vaster than diligence
and if the sheets have not been ruffled
love has not spent the night.