It is November

and raining hard, again,

enough perhaps,

for the salamanders

to emerge from their long

waiting patiently underfoot

By droves they crawl,

sometimes miles, beneath

the beating rain, bound

for the pools of their birth,

navigating by stars,

or some say by magnetism,


When I wake to see you

stoking the coals

in your underthings,

feeding a log to the fire

with your stout

and lovely hands, which

make so much of nothing,

and you turn, smiling,

and come to lay, somehow,

despite all odds,

beside me, my heart

can do nothing

but this fine


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