fear the loping tongue of the moonlizard
that tapers the green desert’s tailored footpaths
in a tsunami of synapse and nerve
you will meet your skinless mother
skulking in the parlour
she offers her stale palms
upturned on a tea-tray
soaked in the blue glow
of the evening’s small explosions
you don’t trust the world to be reasonable
you don’t trust the runged arch of accident
reaching high windows
or the soft absence of cloud
tucked shyly in your pocket
sometimes the cold lick of tide
touches your ankles
sending a quiet tremor of shingle
into consciousness
you think of expanding gas
the rhythmic click of matchbreath
snapping shut
on the redeye of an unstoppable reptile
Debbie Potts
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