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A salamander in its wet world
of leaping sounds, forked tongues and raindrops,
As big and round, and thunderous, as your eyes.
And the same wet heat,
trickling. And the salamander in its wet world
with its long lasso tongue and peacock cries
and that ridiculous bobbing, which presumes,
when nothing's meant at it.
And If the night moves, if it cries, if it folds
even and embraces you; It means
nothing by it. It's all in innocence.
But the salamander in its wet world
croaking its summer song - oblivious
to all camouflage - perched on a leaf,
mid-stream ....
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