A tidal movement: being salted, washed, then re-submerged, until to move becomes a hot, sandy bliss or a slow forgetting— the crackle of corn’s dry jacket and sheets left to parch on the line. Its raw as a nerve— to be away from home, and looked on by so many windows. Now you’re a live wire trying not to earth— or be drawn down into dank soil and birthed— a fresh seed with garish dreams— skinned meat— this thing that you are / this lizard’s tongue, flicking while I’m parched in the desert with a mind like water a mind like yours sees only black / and the lazy white sun bleaches every thought it licks

Catriona McLean