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PROTEUS I move from room to room, from house to house, so quick that there's no way of catching me framed in a door, crossing a street or continent. Yet every place I live in is a shape I fill, and I become the tidy shelves or slew of broken chairs or fronded columns, rococo lamps, dim beds, chipped pots or damask swags. All these décors are structures of the mind that has no structure if it has no home. In retrospect I see me there or there, ever a stranger whom I never knew. This poem is one more room, a vase whose shape—like water—I assume before I pour into some ruder bowl; for I must go, out from this house I am, and I'll not see me going.
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