HIGHWAY THROUGH THE POND'S MIDDLE

you take the handle to start hog up
(salamanders move
their orange 'cross wet tar)
avoid their bodies with your motors tires
ribcage crunch, tiny hearts

you wish for a crash to throw you down
to the swamp or the spiders that rule the dust
on the runway's ramp where the creatures merge

the purge of sunlight from broken
radio hole

we watch on our larger cages
the orange skin
take over the tent of our frames
and coat the rotting logs
with live
lizard