To Be Amphibious

O how I should like to be amphibious,

moving neatly between worlds only

barely aware of one another.

 

And I could climb the highest peaks of land,

and plumb the depths of the deepest ocean.

 

One place I’d breathe air.

One place I’d breathe water.

 

And when in the one place the sun begins

to burn my skin, a hop and a skip puts me

in the cooling world of water.

 

It’s a pretty intense environment change,

if you think about it long enough:

 

A world full of air—oxygen and whatnot,

and an airless world—a world where air is

trauma, violence, and death.

 

And when in the other place I become prey

for some rascal of a violent creature, I'd 

locomote myself to land.

 

I’d as you to keep in mind one very important

item of significance, pretty please:

 

I’m talking about not only walking and swimming

but being resident of terra firma

and spending whole weeks wet.

Is the stuff inside you amphibious? Does it manage to cross the natural bounds of possibility with a fluidity uncharacteristic of ensconced dogma.  Thou Shalt Not!  But you do, don't you?  I know you do.  I find an unnatural comfort in this knowledge, I will have you know, because to me it means an act of obfuscation.  Do you understand that I don't know how long you've been a salamander?  I always thought of you as a creature of infinite talent, but to deny your salamanderness seems to me an exercise in insurmountability (I mean, I have tried so many times, and failed utterly).