| He has made my house his home Even if sensible He has feigned since I sat To be unacquainted With my disposition. It shows. I feel his black jutting eyes Though half shut flit about Raring to circumscribe Groans muted dark thoughts masked All the veils of a mind. He knows. Because he slithers slowly To the chair near the pot At which I flick the butts And lashes at insects As one with my sickness. She goes. The door opens, closes, shuts Very soft at my back The draft floats one whisper To the silent gecko "She loved him, loves him not." (December 2001) Copyright ©2002 Olivier Serrat |
| he has feigned since i sat |
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