Out of the crack of the moon,
a lizard slips,
salmon-pink, brown-spotted,
and is instantly devoured
by my sainted cat.
The walls, though upright, lie still;
glasses touch, creating
a ripple of sound,
a touch of unease,
the loss of an eye,
the drop of the moon,
a terrible song
underneath the earth.
We barely move.
The plot is tight.
The bathroom sink drips,
along with our skeleton chains
and the distant clap of a bell
from a delicate church.
Milk moves in,
flooding our veins
had we been unlucky
enough to be born.
Dennis Grunes 