The Snake

A snake bit me,

Filling my arm with clouds

And my feet with sand.

A snake read my poems

And complained that it could not warm itself on them,

That tears are not stars

And that the desert does not forgive.

I said, "Serpent,

I would bash your brains in if I could,

I would run if I could,

But you have poisoned me

And I am decades from any help,

And from any soft kiss that might have saved me."

"You begin to bore me," replied the snake.

"Lay down in your nest of poems and die,

Even though they will not warm you;

Even though tears are not stars,

And the desert

Never

Forgives."