You have found
your place
in
the sun, that niche
of intermittent
light
beneath the
looser weave
of a wicker
bench.
Hidden from hawks
you lie there
safe, elegantly sly
on a slab of
concrete
like that of an ornament
on a Jaguar
hood.
But you are
not all show
and sleek
seduction.
Your blood
carries
a protein that
cleanses
the lime tick of
his bane
while your
tongue
desacralizes a halo
of gnats.
You have learned
ways
to temper
heat and shade,
boost and
guard
the yard’s eco
system.
And though
named
after the high
place
where most of
your species
will crawl, you
prefer
our stoop to the wall. And with
such nimble
feet, you could scale
or cling to the stones
but like me,
you must fear
being cornered,
pushed
up against yourself.
The most
vulnerable
part
that sheds
poise, losing
its way of
saving grace.
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