by Randall Jarrell

    The saris go by me from the embassies.

    Cloth from the moon.  Cloth from another planet.

    They look back at the leopard¹ like the leopard.

    And I. . . .

    this print of mine， that has kept its color

    Alive through so many cleanings； this dull null

    Navy I wear to work， and wear from work， and so

    To my bed， so to my grave， with no

    Complaints， no comment： neither from my chief，

    The Deputy Chief Assistant， nor his chief

    Only I complain. . . . this serviceable

    Body that no sunlight dyes， no hand suffuses²

    But， dome-shadowed， withering³ among columns，

    Wavy⁴ beneath fountains——small， far-off， shining

    In the eyes of animals， these beings trapped

    As I am trapped but not， themselves， the trap，

    Aging， but without knowledge of their age，

    Kept safe here， knowing not of death， for death

    Oh， bars of my own body， open， open！

    The world goes by my cage and never sees me.

    And there come not to me， as come to these，

    The wild beasts， sparrows pecking the llamas' grain，

    Pigeons settling on the bears' bread， buzzards

    Tearing the meat the flies have clouded. . . .

    Vulture，

    When you come for the white rat that the foxes left，

    Take off the red helmet of your head， the black

    Wings that have shadowed me， and step to me as man：

    The wild brother at whose feet the white wolves fawn⁵，

    To whose hand of power the great lioness

    Stalks， purring. . . .

    You know what I was，

    You see what I am： change me， change me！

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