The Gila Monster Dances in the Moonlight

fire gallops through fire
drowsy in the sand.
it dozes in old cotton wood,
a drowsy poison bath curdling
at the edges of the drawn pot,
down from a boil, and then
there’s its own ghost
in the kitchen.
the dance disconnects from the dance
and the night moves
with little light somewhere else,
inside something else…
I cannot make it out
but I imagine it is there—
a dandelion next month,
this place where there isn’t night
and there isn’t the opposite either,
for a few seconds it comes to you
like smoke in the blue corners of your vision.