Lizard
Amanda Reynolds

You must come here often, and possibly

            stop to linger and rest while

lost behind these pillared palms.  Perhaps

            this is the fabled fountain

everyone seems to have forgotten,

            or given up, except the new northern

transplants. All your spasmodic motions

            excite me, though it seems your aim

thus far is only a stealthy escape.

            Like a mother’s hush you whip

an elastic tail around that branch,

            pretending, or wishing, you were alone.

Your blinking, ducking, and leaps

            (like flying!) are too quick
for understanding. Ducks sound bored alarms

            at every turn, ibises like white cranes pull

on the drooping trees as if to uproot them.

            At some point I imagine you’ll return,

(I have already seen this swamp once),

            your stripes new hues of dried-out green.

It must be reassurance, or habit,

            that brings you back, or this rotting smell,

fallen leaves too great to count.