I mistook it for a cry but it rarely ever is As a lizard ugly and still a corpse under the frail dress of a tube-light old—
As its eyes alert and quiet A sleeping village where every whisper every rustle is tossed around from dark to dark
and a tail As the burnt edge of a leaf Curled up on the wall once white —flayed to grey
I mistook it for a cry Readied a sword forged by dawns Carved and beat a shield out of nights’ sleepless eyes
But when ruin descends it binds the dark’s calloused hands and every whimper, every crackle is smothered In its rusty, dry throat (Restless tongue, a guard-dog above)
When ruin descends it does so a flower. A stone rolled and rolled pitifully down the road— It does so lovely and patient;
As a blossom taped to the cement wall watching the smoky light for unfortunate flies That may appease its ablaze pyre of a mouth