By Hans Ostrom
Rainstorm: and a salamander glued itself
to the outside of a basement’s pane.
Its orange belly desired red.
Its throat pulsed against a flattened water
-droplet caught between neck and glass.
Its shiny small black eyes blinked, once,
in slow motion. Its four-digit feet to me
looked perfectly original, delicate, serviceable–
like a new form of lace. The texture
of its wet black back, on rough’s
spectrum, lay between that of lizard
and cat’s tongue. The salamander chose
not to speak. It interrupted my life
in a way that put me in its debt
forever. I watched the heart
bump the abdomen softly. Have to
admit some sadness slipped in:
something about that single slow blink.
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