Lizard

I'm a strip of cold muscle warming in the sun.
I blend in well with stone.
Flies avoid my tongue.

I'm a piece of rough wood
the wind wears down.
Though I am not old, I am not young.

I flick my forked tongue into the air.
I taste a flitting meal flying overhead.
No need to strain, I only need to stare.

I'm a torpid thought waiting for motivation.
If you brush me I will not move.
I have no place beyond now.

Unless you step on me,
you'll never know I'm here.


—Eric Nelson