Large-fruited Red Mahogany

9. Viral retreat

The sky is always dark  
and heavy as a stone, the streetscape is unlit,  
inhabitants, it seems, have no desire 
to have it any other way;  
they know of danger should they quit  
their sanctuary and embark  

against all warnings on     
a gambol in the world outside. They do emerge 
to seek a snack but in their warm retreat 
they mainly fidget, shuffle, twitch.  
The narrow winding paths converge  
to an adobe-walled salon  

of rude simplicity.  
They follow pheromones to find sequestered space.   
Unfazed by their propinquity, a nest of ants, 
curled slaters, roaches— squeaky clean—  
and hibernating snails embrace  
a life of baffling harmony.   

No music here except  
the soothing sounds of breathing walls, the sensual thrum of feelers stroking in the dark—perhaps the life 
beneath this flattened stone  
gives hope that we would not succumb—   
if we could be as like adept.  

(French Literary Review)


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