Lizards sun, drag hours for themselves On the baked rock face, With tense hands prepared always To run, even in the face of bliss.
Hands curve prematurely, Turn rock face into a more appealing Rock bodice, and the Lizards are cast away By the sudden **** of millennia. Do not litter the bettered stone With a dainty snowflake likeness Sought in the bedragglings of Their skeletons. What little ancestry to look back upon. It's probably better...
No, absolutely it is. That is the cry of the valley: Massed voices weighted with spring And enunciated by winters.
The sunrock bathes for Whoever knows how long, In drys And in humids. And then one day is crushed Underfoot by the hulking form, By the tense little claw of a Reckoning nomad. The surroundings look Sharp at the smart little giant And pull themselves neatly away from the dust.