Aftermath

The salamander slurps up fruit with a gentle
quick flick of the licking tongue until
it burns out the fear and cold and pain,
until the little tracks of green and yellow
become as bare as raw earth, scorched
of love and hate, grown too late among
the weeds of a freight-laden train too heavy
to cross the tracks alone in the pouring
rain of the salamander’s tongue
-Pliny the Dreamer