house of gold


the boomslang
is liquid licorice
melds gentle into its poised midst
can sit for days quintescently silent; a
single drip of rain in a bleak forest
the few snippet sounds of a mouse
sniffing in the heavy air and her
thin dream state begins to disarrange
a drama of order, picks the
smooth drawings of the rodent as it makes a snack of
weeds, narrow crossing insects, small bitter eggs,
the empress moves herself

leafless under the trees a

long length of bottom forces

creases the mulched canopy floor

this tongue separating space

and a nibbler is now a locked heat image

warms in an efficient primal brain

rests in a receding background of shapes

and the shared noises of a flit environment

a quick something different

hits at the moving fur

and a bride as silk breaks over the fallen leaves