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Down
in the morning glory-covered loam,
the slim vesuvian garden lizards hid
with thin fierce grins, the never-closing lids
of their molten eyes and feet like little combs.Safe in their green cathedral, they lazed and
waited
for morning sun to pierce the moist weave.
Dewdrops hung, bright fruit, from the night-bent leaves.
Once, I found a lizard, dehydrated,
crippled and still in the hot
midmorning sun.
I placed it in the shade and the glittering dew.
It looked at me, Confucian, as if it knew
that I meant no harm. These days, when the lizards run
like streaks to a rock and stop dead,
with their frilled
soft throats that throb away in midday heat,
I look to see if we have chanced to meet,
but their eyes are always the same, like lava, chilled.
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