walking sticks

sometimes i am a television antenae & sometimes
i am just the branch & no visitor. when you
hold your leaves do you think of eye lashes or blades? 
i think blades. alone in a night alley way, i tell the darkness, 
"i am not a gender, i am just a pile of sticks." 
we live mimicking the wind. swaying like pendants, 
the walking sticks know how to pretend to not be creatures. 
i ask them, "then for who do you throw parties? do you feast?" 
they do not speak. they are hoping to make me think 
i am just talking to sticks, which is possible. 
what would it take for me to not live for my camouflage? 
i want to wear my body. i want to transform into branches.