The quiet threw them;
who knows or wants to know
this beast? Set, ready
for the attack;
set, ready for the feast.

Sitting alone on a porch,
low clouds hung by;
a black panther — the hour
slips — an electric butterfly.

Pearching on two dead flowers
that I held as living then;
two dead flowers wrapped tight
around rocks beneath the sand.

I had a safe home
with the blinds snuggly shut,
lonly we sit with only
night to keep us company;
listening to the breeze and stream
that scream silence when you speak
of soft coccoons, how
we dreamt of beasts.