I found two geckos hemidactylus turcicus  in my pool, skin stiffening to gray. No eyelids against chlorine’s teeth. No ritual but the slow sweep of my skimmer tipped precisely to avoid the rip in the net’s left side. They were both tiny, two little thumbs.  I wonder if they came to this together, if I should give them a story, construct some life.  But my words turn belly up  at the cold, hard fact of them  now scattered at the base of my banana tree. At every meal I taste their bleached bones. Last week it was a bird by my slider,  broken neck, oily smudge on the glass where it hit.  Last week a hurricane and a stampede killing hundreds  and a trip to the grocery store  (a gallon of distilled water, two frozen dinners)  and I had the flu. Always there is war,  in other countries, in our own veins.  I can’t help but feel that this is its dark way of coming to my door. Or just placing there what has been waiting  all along in the hushed grass.