People, you said

to bounce their plastic life-stories off the glass of you.

to marvel at how you once had feathers,

blue coruscations, not naked bones.

While I pace in my alive skin,

packless as the no-man’s-land wolves

breathing my free air, tamping

down the grass of solitary walks

waiting for you to notice me,

to realize you can grow scales again and come back

alive from the museum.