Dead
grasshoppers are swept
from the
doorstep this morning—
our visitors
last night,
knocking
themselves out
on the door,
the windows,
our tin walls,
as patient
and persistent as the plague.
The empty
house across the road
flickered
last night until we woke,
its verandah
light activated
by a ghost
dog wandering up and down
looking for its
master.
The gekkoes
slip away from under
our feet
during the day,
friendly and
incontinent
as ducks
around the floors at night.
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