To travel sideways--
lunging at the world with one
big claw, lopsided vision,
junk-heap of evolution's
elbows, prongs, and hinges,
uncommitted to the surface, skimming
warily--you bolt,
are poised even when still
to withdraw at the slightest
tremor, a shadow's digit,
your adventures thin compared
to the incremental journeys of a snail
(effusive as pleasure,
each blade of texture
wallowed and soiled),
with brittle fidgets touch
little to keep you here, scuttle
again and again
as if slung by a rubber band
or yo yo'd
from the corkscrew
involution of your burrow
which you will back in,
blocking
claw held aloft, bulged
eyeballs on the intruder, withholding
your lightless, shallow, brief
interior.
--Lisa Williams
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