Trapdoor Spider of the Desert
In reality, the many-kneed legs of Salvador Dali’s camels
are not backlit by sunset crossing the horizon
but instead, are beneath horizon, hoofbeat, granular heat.
Arid Charybdis with Sarlaac appetite,
serpentine reflexes, foxhole reconnaissance,
tending an intemperate pasture
with clawed shepherd’s crook,
blind but for piezo-palpating snare drum sorcery
woven through knotted hinges and glued strings –
Chthonic igloo architect introverted,
solar glare would refract through lamp-baked eyes,
starlight would reflect in freeze-dried eyes,
except for the cratered design snugly hospitable
for a self-hugging bandy-leg strand puller
swift popper-upper pounce grappler ((((yöu))))
Milky poison streaks paint an ebony fang,
dagger-curved paralytic puncture punctuation
double-poked, protrusively pronounced in your voice.
Have a sip dripped from my canteen.
Little hunter in your sandstorm resistant
version of a wicker hamper with a lid,
notwithstanding the shock of finding you in a sock,
tonight, my bedroll makes us next door neighbours.
My scent will keep the mice away,
if you can intercept the scorpions who come near me.