Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Dozing Basilisk

Heat gets rare, sooner or later.
The closed window seat in the sun

That was soon insufferable,
When all worlds were younger, feels good.

The brilliant sun still burns the eyes,
And catches them more easily

In the glare, now that it's lower.
But basking with closed lids is sweet.

The paraphernalia of rocks,
Re-emerging from under lives

So eager to recover
The furnace from complications

They glowed with fire almost their own,
Reminds the lizard of absence

Of a sun in its own lithe frame,
The alchemist of subtlety

In the way metals part their bonds,
The wanderer of borrowed hearths.

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