Anoles

We made snares from long grasses,
We caught one in ten; then
We prodded a bite and
We wore them as earrings.

I pinched their their necks for dewlaps —
Their red-ringed and speckled yellow arcs.
You, transfixed, favored not color but
Their harrassed concitations.

Was it the yelp of surprise
At the first bite?
Or was it watching them wriggle by their tails, defying gravity
A St. Anthony or St. Vitus?

We heard their tails grew back, but
We lacked the patience;
We prayed to see
Our dismemberments regenerate.

This is Fall, at 8:54 a.m., on 10/26/2020. Jamaica Plain, MA. (26/31)

“Poetry takes care of itself. All art does — that is paramount. In a survival race, I’m quite sure poetry will long outlast reality TV and Twitter.”

— Robert Pinsky