Hanging on the wall
its tail wound, upwards,
like a gravity defiant tongue in rigor mortis—the purple lizard.
Two baby bats cling to its undercarriage,
and squint out Morse Code in the sun.
The veins of their wings merging,
into tiny panes of puce.
Encased in no crown-molding,
my family crest
falling.
No comments:
Post a Comment