The sun delivers opals to the morning sky.
Cicadas, high up in eucalyptus, drum
their success –resurrected from the underworld,
from dank earth and root sap. Our trail
crunches underfoot from the ghostly litter
of discarded carapaces, winds along cliffs
to caves, where a screen of vines
defines the boundary between light and dark.

A cereberic bulldog dozes in the sun, head
slumped on a platter of paws. His eyelids rise
like shutters as we approach. Tourists emerge
into daylight, sunshades mirroring compound eyes.
If they had eaten the food of the dead, how long
would it take before they pursued the light?
Would their language pulsate, or would they remain
silent as shed skin, bloodless lips
unable to mouth their names?