The crocodiles, with lovely skin,
dismount from high the tamarack
to swing in a bellowing beguine
red as the wavering wind � a stag
of weary flames and clouded eye
joins in the dance. Three throats, my life

curve round the wheezing of the frogs,
three throats of leather birds who bruise
belief and offer cool blue eggs.
We bite the ova, slurp the juice
deep in the pink of our grotto home �
our toast to East, to West, the same

since hair and shelter�s all that�s left
along the paths of tombs and kings.
Hush now and light my cigarette,
my little flounder whispering
above the thunderclaps of stars,
hush now, my love � surprise the bard.


�2007 by PJ Nights