My last look around the house

took so long that the vine

climbing up the rosebush

beneath the bedroom window

climbed into my eyes,

and a lizard climbed, too,

mouthfirst from the grass,

skin changing color from grass-green

to a green almost without green,

the color of dust on feather.

How changed from last winter,

when the dog pawed the bed

and I let him into the yard

where we both whizzed

in moonlight, while rats ran

from the mimosa to the fence.

Small clouds pawed the galaxy.

The shingles of the lawnmower shed

sparkled, and in the grass,

a cold lizard raised a claw.

Miraculous change,

about the coming flood,

about the black line

the water would write

as it rose along the plaster,

like a madman’s scratches.

Safe in California, I’ll hold

the cell phone hot against my ear

while in Louisiana my friend kicks

the back door in, and enters,

recording the damage

with the phone’s camera,

and the images come through fast,

the bedroom window broken,

the rosebush ash-gray, the yard

ash-gray and without lizard.