by Yaacov Dovid Shulman
A chameleon folded and opened his mitten hands
And turned his cone eyeballs to investigate the white dust.
He was waiting for someone wise to explain the hot sun,
But could not understand
And he trundled into the familiar brambles.
The store sold sky-honey,
Whose pale blue burned like parchment,
Spread on crackers made from the dough of old thoughts.
A cabal of ants passed messages of grass blades.
They would eat the secrets but never understand them.
They were understandably busy.
Dust and yesterday are spread across the roadway,
The swing swings back and forth,
And a little song trickles from a cracked wall.
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