Topic: poetry
The salamanders
Here in the Alleghenies,
Endless, pointless,
You imagine that lifting
One stone will yield
At least one smooth secret.
But salamander habitat
Does not deliver.
Sure, they are here.
But when found, they wriggle
Into the muck, loose
As centipedes -
Or if in hand, they burst
Into the open air
With a power beyond
Their infinitesimal toes,
Plunging back into
The wet and dark,
Rather anywhere
Than with you.
Do they have tongues?
Up in the foreign light
There is no time
For study.
But you have to ask: what about
Their grandfathers,
The yellow spotted giants
Under the overhang
At creekside?
Why won’t they let themselves
Be seen whole, except when blood
motions them to the pools?
Do they excuse you,
Standing on their roof,
Tearing at the shingles,
Grunting as if
You’d found honest work?
Will they welcome you after
The next storm, the next spring,
The new arrangements
Of water and rock?
You hope.
