see him writhing ’gainst the grain,
a fire salamander—poison glands
mean nothing to the roadway, and
little to my dog, sampling the known
and new on nature’s morning walk.
try to force the fauna there to talk,
invested, after all—anyone may own
the pre-tread paths they follow, and
poems, paw-prints, salamander hands
spill clumsily to justify a local pain.
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