scorpion 
the poem is a scorpion at home in its habitat segmented and transparent so campers can tell one end from the other and act accordingly it won't seem aggressive you won't know it's there till, trapped in your sleeping bag a zippered jail you feel it crawling up beside you it's a predator, adapted to survive – first you feel the grip of pincers taking hold then the body-flung-forward sting of the tail
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