The cave downstairs,
jet, obsidian, ember
of bloodstone, glisten 
of mineral green.
And what
hangs out there
asleep.

If a serpent were singing,
what silence.
Sleeping, sleeping,
it is the
thunder of the serpent
drumroll of
the mounting smell of

gas.
Unable to wake, to
blurt out the unworded
warning…

Augh!

Transformed.
A silence
of waking at night into speech.