Little changeling
staked to your patch
of eelgrass, your
camo shifts with mood.
You are fair game
for the dragnet,
however your hue
may flux.
Caught, you are
ground up—
quack cure
for impotence.
If only you could
transmogrify into
myth—the great
sea-steed of Poseidon,
towering and relentless
as a tidal wave
howling down
on the human shore.